


Truth in Transformation

by littlemissmionie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gen, Lesbian, Multi, Post-Deathly Hallows, Trans, Transgender, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemissmionie/pseuds/littlemissmionie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-DH. Amidst the war trial against Draco Malfoy, Harry admits to himself what he can't ignore any longer: that he isn't male. Can the Wizarding World accept a transgender person, even if they are the Boy Who Lived?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Considerable effort has been made to use current, correct and appropriate trans and queer terminology and to steer from stereotypical focuses on physical or genital changes. Much thanks is owed to the further insight provided wonderful autostraddle articles, Janet Mock’s amazing, revolutionary book Redefining Realness and the HP Wiki for when I’m a bad fan and I forget a character’s name or a spell. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for gender dysphoria, transphobia, transitioning, homophobia, self-harm, suicide and physical and emotional abuse. If this fic raises concerns for you, in Australia there are Lifeline (13 11 14) and Headspace (https://www.eheadspace.org.au or 1800 650 890); in the UK there is the London Lesbian and Gay Switchboard (http://www.llgs.org.uk) and in America there is the GLBT hotline (1-888-843-4564).

Change, transitions; these concepts had never brought Harry Potter any luck. Loved ones died and children were forced to play adult. Terror governed and misery ruled. You could say Harry hated change for a very long time. But piece by piece, day by day, something extraordinary happened to make Harry accept and respect and adore change. It was in those days that Harry began to transition.

 

Looking back, Harry almost wished he’d experienced the gender dysphoria, as he’d learned to call it, in his school years. Hogwarts had been a continuum of transitions; the switching staircases, the new passwords, the revolving door of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. As a teenager, while going through all the changes and challenges, voicing the deep dark whispers that kissed along his mind might not have been met with such confusion. Such shock. Such misunderstanding.

 

But maybe Harry was wrong. It had been hard enough, in his final two years of schooling, to deal with all of the repercussions of Tom rising again. Maybe understanding the dysphoria would have sent him over the edge.

 

Harry was nineteen when he began to discover he wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. It wasn’t out of a need to shed the constant glory of being he who killed Voldemort; it wasn’t because all of the father figures in his life had died. It wasn’t because he was raised by a family who kept him out of sight. It _was_ because he couldn’t ignore the signs and symbols any longer.

 

It was two years after the war. Harry had been dating Ginny, still; he lived in a flat above the Three Broomsticks with Neville Longbottom, who was studying to be a professor of Herbology. He spent most of his time being with Ginny or trying and failing to study for his second-level Auror exams with Ron. On the weekends, he’d watch Ginny at her training matches with the Holyhead Harpies and have lunch at the Burrow. Three nights a week he babysat little Teddy Lupin while Andromeda went out for some R and R. Life was pleasant; it had rhythm. Oh, Harry still had nightmares and got triggered every time someone cast a green-hued spell near him. His hands often shook for no reason, and he was content to pretend he didn’t know Ginny was cheating on him. But these quiet and loud interruptions began to feel normal, like a normal part of his life. The bad guys had either died in that final battle, or been sentenced to Azkaban. Even Malfoy wasn’t around to endlessly annoy Harry anymore.

 

In two years since peace had been restored, the Wizarding press hadn’t lost its fondness for Harry.  That’s where the creeping realisation started, really. Harry stopped reading the Daily Prophet because they kept running stories on the _Boy_ Who Lived’s donations to charity; he persuaded Ginny to take down a copy of her Witch Weekly’s Bachelor issue that she’d magically duplicated and stuck on he and Neville’s fridge as a cheeky joke, because he didn’t want to be reminded he was the Weekly’s editors Number One wish-he-was-a- _bachelor_ contender.

 

Hermione was perceptive; there was no questioning her intelligence. But her days were filled with studying to be a witching lawyer and having rows with Ron, which meant Harry’s slowly alkalising mood slipped by unnoticed by her. It was his girlfriend, Ginny, who had noticed something first.

 

They’d been dancing around it for months, now. Harry hadn’t made much of an effort in their sex life, but with mutual trauma, depression and grief from the war between them, a diminishing sexual appetite wasn’t anything new to either of them. Ginny had slowly trained her viridescent-eyed boyfriend to love a good snuggle, in any case, and so she seemed content with that for the time being.

 

The youngest Weasley had been a big learning curve for Harry. She’d been the one to teach him to be emotionally and physically intimate with someone. Every sex position or act or game with her had been the first for Harry; and he wasn’t complaining, because it had been great! His slowly evaporating desire for sex with Ginny was another indicator that change was coming for him, full force. His love and lust for Ginny, especially at the proper start of their relationship, had been fire and combustion and heat. It had confirmed to him that he was a guy’s guy - he loved sex. That’s what being a man was all about, right?

 

They’d traded _I love you’s_ a long time ago. Ginny left her toothbrush in Harry and Neville’s bathroom and walked around his kitchen in her underwear, much to Neville’s embarrassment. Harry did really care for her deeply; he was sure Ginny felt the same for him, too. But they didn’t have the all-encompassing, getting-married-and-having-three-kids kind of love that he saw in the eyes of his adopted family, the Weasleys, and their respective partners. Ginny and he had fun and they understood each other. Ginny put up with him yelling when he got angry and he put up her leaving the bathroom in a complete mess. She helped him calm down when he got the shakes from seeing a green light, and he gave her space when she became possessed by Tom Riddle in her nightmares. They worked very well together, by all accounts.

  
But they were separate entities - they weren’t cohesive, entwined, one.

 

They were temporary, and neither one of them wanted to admit it.

 

That evanescence lead Harry to his current situation on a sunny July morning. In his bed, naked, awkwardly still inside Ginny while she gazed at his chest, defeated after a night of fighting and bad sex.

 

“This isn’t working, is it, Ginny?” Harry asked softly.

 

Harry looked down to see Ginny frozen in fear. Her fingers had stopped tracing the lines of his chest. He could hear her breathing loudly.

 

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked nervously, beginning to loop her fingers across his body again.

 

Harry exhaled, and closed his eyes. “You’re sleeping with someone else. I-think you’re in….” Harry swallowed heavily. “…in love with someone else.”

 

Ginny shook her head, fire slowly heating in her voice. “If this is just because we had a big night last night, Harry, then I think you’re overreacting-“

 

“I can smell her perfume on you, Ginevra,” Harry confessed loudly.

 

Ginny had been training with her dream team, the Holyhead Harpies, since the beginning of the year. It was now July, and her private training sessions with her coach had become more frequent and lengthy with each passing week.  She adored her coach, and her team: the female bond she obviously felt with her teammates made Harry envy her.

 

Ron had teased Ginny with a touch of homophobia about being on a women’s Quidditch team - everyone knew lots of lesbians played professionally, right? Ginny had blushed and looked upset rather than hollered at her dolt of a brother, as she was wont to do. Homosexuality in the Wizarding world…well, it may be the late 90s, but magical folk in England still acted like it was the early 80s in the midst of the HIV epidemic. Silent on the most part, accepting in the fringes, mostly referenced in misinformed jokes or insults. It wasn’t long before the thought finally crossed Harry’s often slow-on-the-uptake mind; that Ginny had feelings for someone on her team.

 

In late June, Harry smelt a different woman’s perfume on Ginny. It was all over her body. He’d been shocked, and had raged internally with jealousy for many weeks. _Did it make him less of a man that Ginny had obviously fallen very hard for another woman_? he’d worried.

 

But then the sneaking statement always slithered to the forefront of his mind.... _But you aren’t a man, are you, Harry?_

 

Ginny and he both kept secrets locked up tighter than the Chamber of Secrets, then. Harry didn't know how to feel about the cheating - angry, hurt, jealous. But he thought of the Weasley family’s domestic morality, and how alone and confused and scared he felt right now, and he didn’t even know what was happening with this whole gender…identity….thing, let alone his sexuality. He became worried for Ginny; worried for her future with her family, with her friends - how scared must she feel to be discovering her sexuality? And so for months longer than he should, he stayed in the relationship, perhaps for both their sakes.

 

But right in this moment, Harry almost wished he’d continued this charade of ignorance. At his words, Ginny looked as though she’d been hit by a rogue bludger. She pushed herself off Harry and away from the bed, hugging her thin frame, her face twisted in grief and shame and stubbornness.

 

She finally moved her gaze back to Harry’s. His heart almost broke then and there. He immediately regretted confronting her as she asked painfully, “Do you hate me?” and collapsed into aching sobs on the floor.

 

Harry cast a quick _muffliato_ and came to sit by Ginny. She refused to let Harry touch her, so he waited until she felt strong enough to speak.

 

“It’s Valmai.” The Harpies’ newest Chaser - in the same position as Ginny. It wasn’t their coach, Gwenog, like Harry had suspected. “I’m so sorry I cheated on you; that I have been cheating on you,” Ginny admitted softly, wiping her nose on her bare freckled arm. Harry was glad she acknowledged that it had at least been an affair. “I had never thought in a million years I would do that. I had loved you all my life.”

 

The past tense cut Harry deeper than he’d thought.

 

Harry took a deep breath. “It hurts, I’m not going to lie. When I first figured it out, I blew up half the kitchen I was so pissed. But now I’m just worried.”

 

“Worried?” Ginny looked confused through bleary eyes.

 

“Have _you_ met your mother?”

 

Ginny looked as though she’d been stunned. Her face became impassive for several moments before she grabbed Harry’s face and pleaded tearfully, as though pleading for her life.

 

“Please, Harry, please,” she begged, her chin wobbling with grief. “They’d kill me. _I’d_ kill me. I don’t know what I’m doing. Please, please, please _. We can’t do this.”_

 

Without another word, Ginny she smashed her lips against Harry’s own and kissed him forcefully. She pushed him back to the floor and her hands began to explore his body once again. Confusion and anger and hate and sadness roared inside of Harry. He tried to push Ginny off of him, but he found himself shaky and weak.

 

“Stop,” Harry told her as Ginny began to grab him in her left hand. He was flaccid and scared of what he was feeling. Ginny let go and threw up her hands. “I can’t - be - _gay!_ ” she screamed at him. Their bedside lamp flew and shattered across the room at Ginny’s anguish and anger. Their lights flickered violently.

 

Harry recoiled at her raw voice. It was scratched with a self-hatred Harry only knew too well. Ginny, breathing heavily, seemed to hear the echoes of her words. She implored Harry to come closer. She traced the outline of his face, fingers trembling.

 

“I can’t be gay, Harry,” she repeated in a lost voice.

 

Harry held her trembling fingers and found himself saying through tears, “I can’t keep pretending anymore.”

 

Ginny closed her eyes and swallowed her own anxiety for a moment. “Are you…are you gay, too?” Her words belied that she too had known something hadn’t been all right with him for a very long time.

 

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

 

Ginny sniffed. “But you aren’t Harry. You aren’t my Harry.”

 

“I don’t know who I am,” he said slowly, as though saying the truth would unfurl a darkness he didn’t want to see. “I just know that _this_ isn’t me.”

 

Ginny didn’t ask any more of Harry. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe she knew more than Harry himself did. They sat side by side in the streaming sun, quiet and fearful of what was to happen when this moment was over.

 

“What are we going to do?” Ginny asked after a long stretch of silence. She slipped her hand into his. He felt it there, barely, a cold comfort.

 

“I don’t know,” was all Harry could reply.

 

*

 

Hermione had come over to study at Harry and Neville’s place that afternoon. It was quiet, unlike the Burrow, where Ron still lived, and so impromptu study sessions from the brightest witch of their age had become the norm. Hermione liked that Harry held up flashcards without complaining, unlike her boyfriend.

 

Neville had obviously told Hermione when she walked in about Harry and Ginny’s abrupt…. _whatever was happening_. Harry and Ginny hadn’t said anything to him. But when Neville had offered them chamomile tea for breakfast Ginny had broke down crying and Harry had retreated to his room.

 

Everyone’s favourite couple was breaking up, even if they could only just admit that to themselves. Ginny didn’t want to come out, and neither did Harry. Ginny had wanted to stay in the relationship, but being Ginny’s boyfriend was just too much for him to handle. He fit perfectly inside Ginny when he didn’t want to at all. He didn’t want to be her husband, her man, her equal partner, the father of her children. He didn’t want to fend off jokes about Ginny having her man wrapped around her little finger.

 

Ginny didn’t want her affair with Valmai to get out, and Harry didn’t want the Weasley family to feel awkward because he wasn’t dating their daughter anymore. They had come to an agreement that they would break up to, quote, ‘focus on their careers’. It would be slow and tortuous but hopefully no one would get hurt.

 

Ginny had left to go fly at the training grounds for a few hours. Harry had confined himself to his room, which after a while he had realised was a bad idea. By the time Hermione arrived, he was ready to burn the place down.

 

He looked around his room and saw posters of his favourite Quidditch male players, all orange and brawn and smiles. He saw their strength and bravado and physicality and it made him sick because that’s what he saw in the mirror. He didn’t want to be in his own skin. Harry didn’t want his life right now. But too many people had given their own so Harry could live in his; he couldn’t just throw away their sacrifice.

 

How on earth was he meant to figure what was happening? How on earth could this ever work? What had he become?  
  
 _(What had he always been?)_

 

Hermione knocked on Harry’s door around four pm. “Can I come in?” she asked, her voice muffled from the wall.

 

Harry did a quick wordless spell to straighten his room up (smooth the sheets, fix the lamp, open a window) and wandlessly unlocked the door. He sat cross-legged on his bed in a Holyhead fan t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He didn’t bother to pretend to be reading a textbook. “Hi, Hermione,” he greeted softly.

 

Hermione came and sat down on his bed, strewing her books beside her. “Are you and Ginny okay?” she asked, straight to the point.

 

Harry looked her over. Hermione appeared tired, as usual. She worked late nights as a Hogwarts NEWTS tutor to support herself through witching university, which didn’t allow her much time for sleep, at any rate. She had cut her hair shorter after the war so that it came just under her chin. Hermione had figured out some spell with Fleur to defrizz it while she was in Australia, bringing her parents back, as the immense heat frazzled it out to the extreme.  It was still a mess of waves and curls, but had a less harried air about it. Her refusal to wear make up didn’t hide her exhausted look. It made Harry wonder how many of them had really caught a break after all the fighting. Had they ever really rested?

 

Or had Harry just ended one battle to charge headlong into another?

 

Harry decided Hermione was probably a good place to start the Weasley grapevine. Not that she’d say anything unless Harry okayed it, but at the very least she’d get her facts straight when she passed along the break up news.

 

“Nope,” he said with a half-smile. “We’re breaking up.”

 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione replied softly. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s for the best,” he said, shrugging. His best friend frowned, obviously not expecting him to be so calm about the whole thing. She witnessed fights between Harry and Ginny before. There had been literal fireworks in some cases.

 

“Why?” Hermione asked.

 

Harry felt his next sentence, ready to be nonchalant, refuse to come out of his mouth. Emotion seized him like devil’s snare. This was really happening. He was really breaking up with Ginny, because he…because he….oh, Merlin. _Oh god._

 

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in and out shakily, trying to get a grip on his resolve. His guilty fingers slipped. Hermione moved closer and held his hand reassuringly. She was clearly worried. Hell, Harry was worried. He hadn’t felt so anxious about anything but spells in years.

 

“You can tell me, Harry, it’s okay. I won’t go anywhere.”

 

Harry opened his eyes and stared at into Hermione’s concerned brown gaze. He looked for some kind of confirmation, some kind of resolution he could jump from. Hermione was wise, and mature: he could trust her with his heart, with his life. She was the brightest witch of her age: she would know how to help him, right?

 

Harry couldn’t say it out loud. He was afraid he’d cry, or worse, no words would come out at all. He grabbed one of Hermione’s quills from the bed and scrawled out a sentence on the corner of her notes:

 

_I don’t think I’m male._

 

Those few words held that devastating instant when he was four and his aunt explained to him he was a boy and that’s why it was a shame he was so scrawny and weak. They held every memory of his childhood where he wished he could play families with the girls down the street and play the mum. They held every desire to be called _she_ and _her_. They held every moment of secret excitement he felt to know he had his mother’s eyes, and that maybe he looked like her, too.

 

He passed the note slowly to Hermione, and watched fearfully for her response.

 

She took one look at the parchment and held herself very, very still. She looked up at her best friend, shaking her head from side to side slightly.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry sobbed, his face crumpling in misery.

 

Hermione seemed to awaken from whatever trance she had been in. She let go of Harry’s hand, and stood up off the bed. Harry felt terror rise inside of him as Hermione appeared to be withdrawing from him.

 

But Hermione did not withdraw. She moved closer and gathered her best friend, her little brother, into a hug. “It’s okay,” was the first thing Hermione said, soft and reassuring.

 

The relief and pain was more stunning than any hex Harry had ever experienced.

 

 _It’s okay, it’s okay,_ went the mantra in his head.

 

 

 


	2. Definitions

**2\. Definitions**

 

Hermione heaved a giant tome from the bookshelf and slammed it onto their table, ignoring the disapproving look from the nearby librarian. Harry stared at it nervously, fists in his jacket pockets, too afraid to sit down at the table. Hermione took a seat, carefully opening the cover, before looking up at Harry.

 

“You’ve faced death and won, Harry,” she reasoned with him softly. “A book isn’t going to kill you. This one doesn’t even have teeth.”

 

Harry swallowed nervously and took a seat. He glanced around the library one more time to make sure they weren’t alone. It was foolish of him to be so paranoid – they were in a Muggle library in inner-city London, far away from magical prying eyes. Hermione had suggested they come to look at some books on gender to see if they could put a name to what Harry was experiencing. Under the guise of Hermione and Harry going to see a movie, a delight Ron didn’t share with his fanaticising father, they had decided to go a week after Harry had first confided in his best friend. Not even the familiar rhythm of sneaking around and looking for clues could make this less of a scary experience for Harry. He didn’t know what he’d find in this book.

 

“I’m just nervous that it will say I’m completely barmy,” the raven-haired young man replied after a moment.

 

Hermione gave Harry a stern look. “You are not ‘barmy’. I’ve heard of men wanting to be women before, so you knowing you are…well, it doesn’t seem so different. I’m going to open the book now, okay? Scoot over so you can read with me.”

 

Harry moved closer. Hermione ran a finger down the contents page of the book they’d chosen after going through tens, _Gender and Sexuality: A Psychologist’s Guide_. They found a section on ‘gender confusion’ and began to read.

 

“I’m actually bonkers,” Harry whispered after the third page. Hermione was shaking her head sternly at the book. “No, no you’re not, this _book_ is bonkers.”

 

Harry found it within the compressing despair he was feeling to crack a feeble joke. “Did you just criticise a book, Hermione?”

 

Hermione shut it firmly and put it back in its place on the shelf. Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. She could see he was trying not to panic, or cry, or throw something. His bushy-haired friend looked around the library, before her sight set on something. She yanked Harry with determination towards the bulky, cream computers that sat at the far end of the library.

 

She chose one of three and, using the guest library passwords displayed above the monitor, logged onto the internet. She typed exceptionally fast on the keys.

 

“You think we could find something there?” Harry asked. He’d never really used a computer before; he had mostly seen Dudley play and yell obscenities at his games on it. “Like a website or something that has info about not really being a guy?”

 

Hermione was typing a more articulate version of Harry’s just-uttered phrase into a search engine. She clicked ‘enter’, and waited for the results to load on the snail paced Internet connection. “Maybe, but I’m thinking there might be a forum or chat room or something where other people have talked about their experiences….”

 

“A chat room? Like, strangers talking on the Internet?”

 

“Yes, they’re quite popular, didn’t you know? I use them sometimes to talk about my favourite novels.”  
  
“Have you found other lost souls who have also read _Hogwarts: A History_?”

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be cheeky, mister, or you can be the one typing.”

 

Harry felt a sadness pull him down further at Hermione’s words. He avoided her sympathetic gaze. “It hurts to be called ‘mister’?” she asked. Harry nodded in response. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay.” He too was still figuring out what was working for him in his post-confession-of-gender world.

 

The search results finally loaded. “Ah-ha! Look! A forum for lesbian and gay teens…” Hermione clicked on the site. The explored each discussion thread carefully, before finding one that seemed to match Harry’s. Someone had title the thread _Gender dysphoria??!!_

 

The main post read:

 

_Hi all. Newbie here, been lurking 4 a while but this is mi first post. I wondered if anyone is in the same boat as me? I was born a boy and I have always hated it. Since I was little I hav always known I should be a girl, it’s more than just dressing up like my drag friends…_

 

_I no deep down I am female but my body doesn’t match how I feel. I’m getting pretty depressed and feeling really alone… my parents sent me to a shrink who says I might have ‘gender dysphoria’. Does anyone else hav this?? Or hav you heard of it b4?? All info I can find on the net says that it means u are transgender, like you are not the gender or sex you were assignd at birth. That sounds exactly like me. I want to no if anyone is transgender and if you can b the gender you want to b. Is it hard?_

 

_Help pls! xx Dee_

 

They were over thirty replies, with strangers’ various tales of their own experiences as transgendered people. They talked about ‘transitioning’, about living lives as the real gender they were, about it getting easier, and about how hard it was.

 

“So I’m experiencing being a… _transgendered_ person? I’m transgender?” Harry wondered out loud. It felt strange and yet comforting to roll of his tongue. He wasn’t alone, other people had been through this too…even if they were strangers on the web…

 

Suddenly, Hermione hit herself in the forehead with the computer mouse at Harry’s words. “Of course! I knew I had heard something about this. Did you hear about that movie, _Boys Don’t Cry_ , that’s coming out later this year?”

 

Harry shook his head; he and Hermione _did_ often go to the cinemas, but he was more of an action watcher, whereas she enjoyed indie films.

 

“It’s about a transgender….boy? I’m assuming you use the, um, wanted gender when referring to someone, yes?” Hermione looked at the computer, as if for confirmation of the correct terminology in one glance, before continuing. “It’s about someone who is transgender who falls in love with a girl in a small town but, um, gets really horribly brutalised by these men. It’s based on a real-life case that happened in America. Very sad.”

 

Harry closed his eyes, letting all of the information they’d found in the last hour wash over him. It felt heavy and almost unwanted. Transgender. People like him. In a real life. In a movie. In a world where people didn’t understand.

 

It was almost too much to bear.

 

“I think we’ve had enough research for today,” came Hermione’s voice from in front of him. “Come on, let’s go back to my place and have some tea.”

 

*

 

Harry felt emotionally numb as he warmed his cold hands around a large mug of earl grey at Hermione’s flat. Hermione was curled up opposite him on her old, brown lounge. The TV was on in the background as white noise to fill the contemplative silence that consumed them both.

 

“Ron won’t be here until later tonight, so we can hang out for as long as you’d like,” Hermione offered kindly. Harry mustered up a weak smile in thanks.

 

“Has Ron said much about how Ginny’s doing?” he asked quietly. It had been a five days the golden couple had broken up. They hadn’t exactly told anyone they were over, but the signs were there/ Ginny had thrown herself into her Harpies practice, while Harry had skipped three Auror training sessions. He hadn’t felt this low in a really long time. It had been hard to get out bed that morning; everything was exhausting. He wished he had Ginny’s determination – or avoidance tactics, whatever they were. At least she seemed productive in the wake of their break up for the _Witch Weekly_ tabloids. He wasn’t too upset about their breakup: with all this…transgender….business, he hadn’t had a lot of time for it to really sink in. It was also possible that their relationship really had ended for the best, if he didn’t feel so much after.

 

“Said she’s fine, been busy all week. A little sad. I mean, you were the love of her life.”

 

Harry had kept his word about concealing Ginny’s sexuality and her affair. “Maybe when she was eleven…but we both grew up. And we just weren’t right for each other. I don’t think all Hogwarts relationships are meant to last past graduation.”

 

“I agree,” Hermione replied. “We’re young, we don’t need to settle so soon. Ron certainly needs to do a little more maturing. Hence why I live by myself; I don’t want to become Molly Weasley 2.0 for him.”

 

Harry smiled at that image. “It also allows you to read trashy romance novels in your pyjamas on a Friday night without shame,” he said slyly.

 

Hermione blushed. “You know me too well…”

 

They lulled back into a comfortable quiet, drinking their tea.

 

Harry could feel the sadness trying to tug him away, reaching down deep. He owed Hermione for all her support so far, and couldn’t check out just yet. He took a few breaths and determined to having Hermione-focused conversation for the rest of his stay. “So how’s law going?”

 

Hermione sighed. “Hard. Not as hard as I’d like. There are some serious flaws in the Wizarding legal system. I’m applying for an internship with the Hecate firm, actually, for the upcoming Death Eater trials.”

 

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised. The trials of _Death Eaters vs People_ had been two years in the making: the broken Ministry had needed time to put a proper case forward to charge those who had been on Voldemort’s side (or so Hermione had explained when he’d been outraged that nothing had happened in those first months.) Many Death Eaters had been locked up in a new prison on the outskirts of Scotland, or put under house arrest. “That’s a pretty landmark case; but knowing you, I’m sure you’ll get it. What will you be doing with the firm?”

 

“Mostly running around, organising their paperwork and minor things like that since I’m just a student. It will be utterly fascinating to watch the whole process up close, though.” Hermione drank the last dregs of her tea. “Difficult to watch, knowing and seeing what those inhumane people did… but I’d be foolish to let that stop from working on such a case.”

 

“Which side will you be representing?”

 

“The Defence,” Hermione said.

 

Harry felt his respect for Hermione go up a notch, if that was at all possible. Not everyone who had hurt them and their friends had died in 1997. She had more guts than he to face them everyday for weeks and to remain impassive.

 

“You’re going to be a great lawyer, Hermione,” Harry praised her.

 

Hermione smiled nervously. “Y-you’re going to be a great woman one day,” she responded, unsure if it was the right thing to say or not.

 

 _One day_ , Harry reflected. It sounded hopeful.

 

*

 

Harry bid Hermione goodbye not long after, and got ready to babysit Teddy for the night. He headed above to the Tonks residence at six pm. He knocked loudly, hoping Andromeda could hear his arrival through the loud, pouring rain around him. It was a gloomy old night, that was for sure. It certainly suited Harry’s mood….he heard Teddy’s tiny footsteps scurrying towards the door and Harry prepared himself to be happy for his godson. He deserved better than mopey-Uncle Harry tonight.

 

“Wait, wait a moment, Theodore…” Harry heard Andromeda’s voice as Teddy tried to grab the door handle.

 

“It’s Harry, Andromeda,” the green-eyed young man offered. The handle twisted and Teddy exclaimed loudly, “Harryyyyyyyyy!”

 

Harry swooped his godson into a hug and walked through the doorway, hoisting Teddy on his hip. “Hello! Hello! Hello!” Teddy was parroting at him so loudly Harry couldn’t help but chuckle.

 

“Hey, Teddy,” Harry greeted with a kiss on the boy’s cheek. He ruffled Teddy’s hair, centring himself in the moment, smelling toddler and whatever Andromeda had cooking on the stove.

 

Harry tacked on a smile, letting his troubles retreat to the back of his mind for the moment, and let himself fall into the familiar sound of Teddy’s lovable chatter.

 

Teddy squirmed in Harry’s grasp, so he let him down gently. Andromeda stepped forward to give Harry a quick kiss on the cheek in greeting. Harry pushed his hair behind his ears and smiled nervously. “You look nice,” Harry said, gesturing to the elder Tonks’ gothic dangling earrings. “Where are you off to tonight?”

 

“I’m going to the theatre with some of Ted and I’s Muggle friends,” Andromeda replied warmly. “It should be rather dreadful; it’s one of their sons’ performances in a small production of _Macbeth_.”

 

“Glad I’m not going, then.”

 

Andromeda checked the time; it was ten past six. “Yes, well, I better be off. There’s stew on the stove for you and Teddy….” She leaned closer to Harry, lowering her voice. “Tell him it’s red flavoured and that the green bits are green pasta, okay?”

 

Harry smiled. “Sure thing. Thanks for the stew.”

 

Andromeda bid goodbye to her grandson and apparated just outside her doorstep with a delicate ‘pop’.

 

Teddy had hobbled over to a brightly coloured box filled with his toys while they were talking, rifling loudly through it. He now came back over to Harry with a big book and was imploring him to read it to him with lots of gesturing and chirps of “read bookie!”. _Harry, Grandma, ow_ and _read bookie_ were the main words in his vocabulary. Harry reckoned he was pretty smart for an almost two year old: Andromeda said it was magic, but Harry thought it was Remus’ genes. 

 

Harry crouched down low and persuaded his godson to come and eat dinner first (which really meant saying “we’ll read bookie later…” and lifting him up over towards the kitchen). Harry spent a good twenty minutes feeding Teddy, which involved him eating mouthfuls and making contented sounds until Teddy was persuaded to eat, too. He loved copying Harry. Teddy, of course, got the red stew everywhere. Thank Merlin for cleaning spells - Harry wasn’t sure how Muggle parents did it, some days. Harry considered himself fairly competent at caring for a baby, but was grateful he could always hand Teddy back to Andromeda after a couple of hours or days. He wasn’t quite ready to be a parent yet.

 

Teddy gave his godfather a big, red grin as Harry finished cleaning the mess from the high chair tray. Harry couldn’t help but smile back. He often wondered if he’d be enough for Teddy; if he could love him enough. He knew what it was like to grow up without parents, and he wanted Teddy to always feel loved and surrounded.

 

His godson certainly adored him, especially now he was old enough to be more aware of other people and his wants and dislikes. He loved playing catchies with a spare snitch Harry had, and having Harry read to him, and the cuddle him when he was upset. Harry felt that dejected sense of hollowness creep in again as he wondered to himself… _would Teddy still love me if I wasn’t Harry anymore?_

 


	3. Discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dee Dee, Rosette-99, Ally and Pretty Phoenix for your lovely first reviews and discussions with me about Truth! To clarify, this story is set in 1999, but in order to keep up with current and respectful ideas and terminology about genders, those that are current will be used in this fic. Harry will eventually stop using 'he, his, him' pronouns and move to something more comfortable as they find what suits them. This fic is more than just Harry's journey to become his true self - see if you can spot any breadcrumbs!

Harry spent the weekend itching to find out more information on being transgender. _Transgender._ The more he thought about the word, the more it sounded not as scary.

 

Still almighty terrifying, though.

 

Harry met Hermione on Monday morning at her apartment to discuss his next steps.

 

“Let’s be realistic - the Wizarding world doesn’t really have the best grip on all things gender and sexuality,” Hermione was saying as Harry polished off some biscuits she’d laid out for them both. The bright witch herself was multitasking, reading the Daily Prophet cover to cover. “For goodness sakes, even Dumbledore wasn’t out of the closet, and he was the greatest wizard of his generation, and maybe the greatest of a few other generations, too!” Hermione looked at Harry closely, waiting for his reaction at her next words. “I think you should look at seeing a Muggle counsellor.”

 

Harry considered this. “Will it be hard to find one that is….accepting of transgender stuff?”

 

“There will be lots of LGBT-specific ones we can find. Harry, I’m a little bit shocked that I know more about the gay world than you do. I’m very much a straight, cis-gendered woman whereas you’ve always known you were different somehow and-”  
  
“‘Siz-gendered’?”  
  
Hermione smiled knowingly. “I’ve been doing some research; it sort of means the opposite of transgender, or gender fluid; someone who knows their true gender is the same as the sex assigned to them at birth. It’s spelt c-i-s.”

 

“Blimey,” Harry exhaled in true Ron Weasley fashion. “I think you’re going to have to help me study all of this stuff. And I’m not sure...I think I just avoided thinking about it or looking into it. Didn’t want to confirm what I was feeling, I ‘spose.”

 

“So. Would you like to go find a counsellor? I’ve got to prepare for this Hecate interview I have next week, but you could always search for one on the internet back the the city library.”

 

Harry nodded, trying not to give away his nerves. “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, again, for everything.”

 

Hermione smiled before handing Harry the Prophet. “It looks like the prosecution is going to ask for life sentences for most of the Death Eaters, even the ones who were underage at the time.”

 

Harry grabbed the paper and saw pictures of some of his classmates staring up at him. Draco Malfoy, who had been charged on conspiracy to murder as well as torturing Muggles, looked world-worn and decidedly un-haughty. “Sounds about right to me,” Harry muttered.

 

Hermione raise an eyebrow. “Harry! You of all people I would expect to realise that one sentence to cover all manners of crimes isn’t _just_. Draco Malfoy isn’t equal in blame or evil to, say, as Lestrange was.”

 

Harry and Hermione stared at each other. “He doesn’t get to go to gaol for being a pompous git, Harry,” Hermione argued.

 

Harry broke into a smile. “See! You’re totally ready for this interview, then.”

 

Hermione sighed with a laugh at his dupe. “That wasn’t quite the most legal of defences, but thanks.”

 

The two friends hugged farewell. Not long after, Harry found himself hunched over a rickety cream keyboard, double checking no one was looking over his shoulder at his search terms at the library.

 

_LGBT transgender counselling in London_ , he typed into Google.

 

A few search results came up. Harry clicked through to the first and second links, reading the website and making notes as he went on a piece of parchment he’d grabbed from home. He wasn’t as tech-savvy as Hermione was, so it took him a while to navigate the sites. The first website seemed to be a general information website about questioning your gender identity and hotlines to call. Harry made a note of them, before moving onto the second website, where Harry found what he was looking for.

 

There was a transgender-friendly counselling service only a couple of blocks from where the library was, on Shelton Street. From the minimalist website, they seemed nice and discreet. Harry wrote down the telephone number for the service and, after logging off the computer, made his way to a telephone box to call _Shelton LGBT Centre_.

 

“We have a drop-in service open until four pm today,” a friendly centre voice, Rebecca, told Harry as he nervously stuttered out his intention for ringing. “You can come in and see if our counsellors will be the right fit for you.”

 

Harry hung up with an awkward ‘thanks’ and decided to take the long way to Shelton Street: walking, not apparating. He needed to work up his courage. _I could really use a dash of Slughorn’s old Felix,_ Harry reflected as he pushed open the purple-rimmed glass door to the _Shelton LGBT Centre_.

 

Harry met an intake officer, Jules, who made Harry a cup of very milky tea and gently coaxed answers out of him over the course of an hour or so. Yes, Harry gently admitted, he had never really felt like he fit in his gender. Harry embellished his story to seem Muggle-ish, but the bare bones were the same. He told himself it was years of the Dursley’s condemnations of he, the freak, being too skinny, or too like his supposedly drunken father, or too magical. But when Hagrid brought him into the Wizarding World with a rap-a- tap-tap of his frilly peach umbrella, Harry was so awed and grateful at being known and heard and cared for, at first be strangers, and then by his adopted family, the Weasleys, that he pushed all of those feelings to the back of his mind and heart. He might have hated the fame, but the long-awaited acknowledgment of being something other than a waste of space as the _Boy_ Who Lived was not something Harry wanted to mess up.

 

Jules asked Harry about his family, his friends, what he did for fun, what his mental health track record had been like. His friends were his family, Harry relayed; he loved football and his training in the army; he’d suffered from PSTD and depression for the past two years after a murderer had threatened he and his loved ones.

 

Jules wrote this all down on a form held in a lime green clipboard. They told Harry to bring a referral from his doctor, and next time, he could make an appointment to see one of Shelton’s counsellors. In the meantime, Jules began talking Harry through pamphlets about trans and other gender diverse people. It was a little confusing, but the pamphlets would help as a standby. Looking at them all, Harry knew Hermione would be thrilled.

 

Harry got the basic idea of how to use pronouns, and what words people used to identify themselves: _he, she, they, ze, zir, xe; transgender, trans, trans*_. _Sex assigned at birth_ instead of _born a boy_ ; it negated true gender identity from the outset. Jules explained that terminology use fluctuated with community preference and outsider awareness over time, and that all that mattered was what you felt described you best. Harry knew he didn’t like hearing the words boy, or male to describe him; he silently tasted _trans_ on his lips again, and somewhat ashamedly liked how it felt, how it warmed him. How it warmed… _.them_?

 

Jules spoke about their own experience with transitioning, and about the little things that would help in the meantime, like talking to friends, and doing little things to keep Harry healthy and happy. Getting plenty of sleep, eating well, exercising, and maybe indulging in some quote unquote “gender fucking.” (Harry took this to mean doing things undecidedly non-traditionally male). Jules finally let Harry go, telling the wizard to check in with himself regularly, and to call hotlines if he needed emergency help.

 

“Don’t be afraid to dream of what your life will be like,” Jules advised Harry with a parting wave.

 

Harry’s head was so full of information about being transgender, he could hardly pay attention at training. He’d grabbed lunch on the way to the Ministry, second level, where his Auror training was located. He dodged Ron by going up the stairs; he didn’t need a chummy chat right now.

 

It was Harry’s second of the third year-long course, so he felt mostly comfortable in the course and with his fellow students. It helped having Ron there, although they weren’t always in the same classes; due to Shacklebolt’s relaxation of the Auror recruiting process, there were over sixty students enrolled to train as Aurors instead of the usual one or two. This meant that classes rotated for individual students. Ron was currently knee-deep in a fascinating but largely theory-based class of recognising and responding to spell damage, which Harry had taken last term. Harry was currently in the concealment and disguise class.

 

Harry scurried into class just in time. They were in a dark room at the back of the ministry; spooky and ominous were words Harry would use to describe it. His intimidating lecturer, the head of the Auror program, Robards, stood in front of the class. “Homework?” he inquired of Harry as he walked in.

 

Harry gingerly handed over this homework from last week - an essay, on which he hadn’t done the best job, on account of being preoccupied with breaking up with his girlfriend and figuring the fuck out of his gender identity. _It’s times like these I wish Tonks was still around to help me_ , Harry mused, faking a smile at Robards.

 

“You feelin’ better, Harry?” Seamus asked, Harry’s one old familiar friend in this class, as the green-eyed wizard slid into a seat next to him. “Neville said you had a pretty bad flu.”

 

Harry reminded himself to pick up a bottle of firewhiskey, or maybe some new strange pot plant, for his amazing housemate on the way home. Neville knew to cover for Harry’s strange PSTD stuff; more than half the Wizarding world had it, yet no one really wanted to talk about it.

 

Harry was pretty sure Neville also felt fairly indebted to him since he hooked Neville up with Hannah two months ago, too.

 

“Stop your gossiping, Potter and Finnegan,” Robards teased as he segued into the beginning of the lesson. “Right, second years; today’s lesson marks the beginning of our practical phase. That’s right, we will be testing out your theory on concealment and disguise in real time.”

 

The class murmured in excitement. Robards grinned, too; he was definitely more of a physical teacher. With his wiry figure and copper, scruffy beard, he resembled a cunning fox. He had a demanding, confident presence in the room, and used the space to his full advantage, constantly moving to keep his easily distracted (or often hungover) young pupils engaged.

 

Robards continued. “By the end of this course, I would like to see each and every one of you successfully change your appearance so that you are unrecognisable in an undercover or operative situation. In the past, I have seen students change their hair colour, eye colour, body shape, and sometimes mostly importantly their mannerisms to disguise themselves effectively; some choose to change their appearance to be another human, while budding animagi have treated me to changing to something a little more...wild. One student received full marks for successfully transfiguring themselves in and out perfectly into a lamppost, of all things.” The class chuckled with Robards at this. “It’s the truth! This assignment allows you the full scope of disguise - I want to see a different side of you. Please write down the following criteria:.”

 

Robards waiting for the scurrying of parchment and quill cases opening to cease.

 

“You must show me the following:

 

 that you can disguise yourself as a different person, animal or object wholly; that the means by this is timely, 100% effective and magical, by means of spell, potion or otherwise; that your disguise can withstand an N-grade level of spell damage; and finally, and that your disguise is justified by a two foot parchment essay, complete with references.”

 

Robards added one more statement. “It’s worth noting that sometimes less is more. It’s not all about turning yourself into a pumpkin.”

 

Seamus and Harry excitedly discussed possible disguise ideas as they left the class. Seamus was well keen on trying to transfigure himself into a coin. They bumped into Ron, who looked rather put out that he was stuck with an essay on the Cruciatus Curse while his friends got to be ‘bloody proper Aurors’.

 

Ron invited Seamus and Harry along for an afternoon drink at a small wizarding pub around the corner, but Harry declined, citing eagerness to get started on his disguise assignment.

 

“You’ve been spending too much time with my girlfriend, mate,” Ron ribbed, but farewelled his best friend with their standard blokey clap-the-back-and-hug-one-handed hug.

 

Harry left Neville’s small gift, the strangest (and safest) plant Harry could find in Diagon Alley, near his door as Neville was out when Harry returned home.

 

Harry’s two assignments, he supposed you could say, echoed and entwined in his mind as he flipped open his old charms textbook: one, to not be afraid to dream of his future self, and two, to work on a complete disguise. Harry felt like he already had one on, this mask of masculine muscles and strong features. He had been pretending to be male forever. He wanted a soft figure, and a sure, intelligent demeanour; womanhood as he saw it in the women around him, Hermione, Ginny, Mrs Weasley, Andromeda, Luna. But to everyone else, _that_ would be the disguise.

 

_It couldn’t hurt to finally try out that disguise, to see how I’d like to look,_ Harry reasoned, as he turned to the chapter on makeup charms, and began reading about charming nail polish onto his… onto their...onto her fingernails.

 

Hope, for the first time in a long while, felt within reach.

 


	4. Wordings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new year gift from me to you - chapter four! It's a little shorter than the rest - a brief reprieve before the more angsty chapters to come. 2014 was a year of greater awareness and education of issues that people in the transgender community face, but also served as a stark reminder of the cost and consequences of refusing to recognise and accept someone's gender identity. Here's hoping 2015 sparks a change. 
> 
> Thanks to readers Mari Vargas, crimsonelf and Kris for your lovely words on past chapters. A reminder that you can ask me questions about this story and its issues through my tumblr @littlemissmionie, where you can also find drafts, teasers and banners.

**4\. Wordings**

HARRY AND GINNY’S SHOCK SPLIT!

 

HARRY THE HARPY HEARTBREAKER

 

CAREERS COME FIRST FOR WIZARDING WORLD’S FAVE COUPLE

 

IT’S BEEN OVER FOR MONTHS, A CLOSE FRIEND REVEALS

 

BOOZE AND TEMPER TANTRUMS TO BLAME IN POTTER/WEASLEY SPLIT

 

“It’s not that bad, Mum. Really, I think the worst headline is where they tried to tie in the whole ‘boy who lived’ thing,” Ginny said weakly to her mother as Mrs Weasley looked at she and her ex-boyfriend Harry, distressed at the sudden news that had come swooping in with the morning post.

 

BOY WHO LIVED’S ROMANCE DIES, Harry read the headline that Mrs Weasley clutched to her chest. He kept his eyes trained on the paper as he sat at the breakfast table with the whole gamut of the Weasley family watching him. He may be family to them, but breaking up with Ginny had possibly brotherly consequences Harry wouldn’t like to imagine. _And it had started off as such a normal saturday brunch at the Burrow_ , Harry reflected.

 

“I am upset that you two broke up, of course, Ginevra, not about the headline!” Molly admonished. “However, I am most upset that I had to hear it from that Rita Skeeter copy cat, Jessica Hester! You couldn’t have owled your mother first, given her the heads up?”

 

Ginevra squirmed. “I’m sorry, Mum,” she said in a soft voice, unlike her. Harry could see their confrontation had shaken her quite a bit. It was the first time they’d seen each other, at the Weasley family’s monthly big brunch. He wondered how everything with Valmai had gone.

 

“I’m sorry, too, Mrs Weasley,” Harry apologised. “I guess we just didn’t know how to tell you; I guess we were still processing it ourselves…”

 

Molly shushed them both, before looking at them with wet, sad eyes. “You are really over?”

 

Both Harry and Ginny nodded.

 

“And it obviously wasn’t booze. Harry can’t hold liquor to save his life.” Ron snorted at this judgement from his mother. “You do both have a bit of a temper…”

 

“We just grew apart,” Ginny explained awkwardly after a moment, aware her whole family was waiting to see how she acted around Harry. “It was a mutual decision.”

 

“So this means we can’t kill Harry?” George asked dejectedly after a moment. “Damn. Pass the bacon, will you?”

 

And that’s basically how it went with the Weasley’s. They were a hotheaded lot, sure, but they were happy to continue loving Harry if Ginny didn’t find it too bothersome. It was obvious they didn’t hate each other, and thankfully, that seemed enough for the rest of the family.

 

“Maybe _en temps_ you’ll find eeeach ozer again,” Fleur added unhelpfully as little Victoire tried to steal her mother’s scrambled eggs when she wasn’t looking.

 

Ginny looked down at her meal. Harry knew from the way she blinked very fast and her ears went red that she was trying not to cry. Harry squeezed her hand in reassurance. _You’re not alone in this_ , he tried to convey. He felt guilty for not telling her the truth about his gender when he had confronted her about her sexuality. It wasn’t fair; he wanted to remedy it, soon.

 

Ginny squeezed back, and they passed the rest of brunch in amicable but still awkward quiet.

 

The Weasley brothers, Ginny, Angelina and Harry ended up playing a game of Quidditch to loosen the tension. There was a bludger shot that Harry was sure Bill threw very close towards him on purpose, but apart from that incident, it didn’t seem like the Weasley’s were going to kick Harry out of the family. It hadn’t been a real concern for Harry, but it certainly was a possibility that lurked in his mind.

 

Ron and Harry discussed the Cannons’ chances for the grand final this year as they spelled away their brooms after the game. It was the first time Harry had properly spoken to Ron in a couple of weeks. Harry felt anxious, like he had a big neon sign flashing and pointing at his head, bearing the words ‘I am not a guy, and I dumped your sister because of it’.

 

Ron had never been good with words, or confrontation, and he wasn’t going to start now, it seemed. “You didn’t cheat on Ginny, did you, Harry?” he blurted out.

 

“No! No way,” Harry replied vehemently. “ _Neither_ of us cheated. We just stopped...y’know, er, loving each other like that.” Harry had never been comfortable saying the ‘l’ word when it came to talking about Ginny with his best mate. It kind of grossed Ron out - not that he’d need to ever worry again after all that had transpired.

 

“Er, okay, good. Bloody hell, I mean, it’s not good that you don’t l-love each other, but good you didn’t, er…” Ron winced. “I need a drink. At least I don’t have to think about you two...doing it anymore.”

 

“No, but I have the pleasure of hearing about what Hermione likes in the bedroom for _years_ to come,” Harry teased to lighten the mood. Ron was pretty private when it came to he and Hermione’s relationship. It was definitely strange being best friends with two people in a relationship: hearing about one’s sex antics from the other felt a little weird and intrusive to the other. Harry and Ron usually just had an unspoken agreement that if they talked about sex, they both pretended Ron was dating Lavender so it wouldn’t get weird when talking about how to best please their intelligent witch friend. It worked...for the most part.

 

“Hey, at least we aren’t eating rotten turnips anymore,” replied Ron, which was his favourite way to remark on what trivial things irked them now the way was over. Hermione, who had tried her best during those months in the tent, would send him a sour look everytime this phrase was uttered.

 

Harry rolled his eyes. Nothing changed with Ron, at least.

 

Harry and Ron bid farewell to everyone and they apparated to Hermione’s apartment to chill out for the rest of the lazy saturday. Hermione’s saturday would not be so lazy: she had an interview for the Wizarding court case aide position.

 

“Why is your interview on a saturday?” Harry asked Hermione as he hopelessly lost another pawn in his game of chess with Hermione’s boyfriend. Hermione was pacing around the kitchen where Harry and Ron played, practicising interview responses.

 

“Lawyers often work seven days a week; crime doesn’t take a weekend break.”

 

“That sounds like a television catchphrase,” Harry replied.

 

“That sounds daft, an interview on a saturday,” Ron responded. He looked up to see Hermione glaring daggers at him. “Good luck, love,” he added, blowing her a weak kiss.

 

Hermione sighed and went to get dressed. She came out of her room ten minutes later, her hair and makeup done in a way Harry hadn’t seen since they’d been to one of the dozens of funerals two years ago. Hermione looked at the boys nervously, standing awkwardly in her pencil skirt. “Well...how do I look?”

 

Ron made a strangled noise, forgetting his chess move. “Er...really, really hot.”

 

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “I can’t look sexy, Ronald, it’s an interview! Is my shirt buttoned up enough?!”

 

Harry laughed. “Ron’s just being Ron. I think you look very professional with all your buttons done up and the, ah, black heels-things.” Harry made the pretense of not knowing the name kitten-heels and refrained from blurting out that he’d kill to try them on. “A perfect student aid for a giant legal case.”

 

“You tease.”  
  
“I do not, Mrs Weasley.”  
  
Hermione got so riled up at that old joke her potion-smoothed hair almost crackled with magic. “It’s Miss Granger - oh, _now_ you are teasing me. Ha- _ha_.”

 

“What’s wrong with taking my name?” Ron said in mock-outrage as he moved to check Harry in chess. The bishop swung and decapitated Harry’s red queen. The white pawns cheered in victory.

 

“It’s an out-dated tradition, along with the fact that we aren’t married,” Hermione said over her shoulder, now rushing around to grab her portfolio and handbag. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Oh, where are my keys?”

 

Ron waved his wand and Hermione’s keys gently soared from the coffee table into her hands. He got up and gave Hermione a kiss on the lips, smoothing a hand down her hair. It was such a lovely gesture from the normally bumbling Ron. He could definitely be surprising.

 

“You’ll be great, Hermione,” he said reassuringly. Hermione’s anxiety seemed to deflate at his words.

 

“Thank you,” she responded quietly, before heading out to her front step and apparating with a soft ‘pop’.

 

*

 

Hermione found herself in front of the firm’s main office quicker than she’d anticipated. She was almost twenty minutes early for the interview.

 

Madge Lune, _Hecate and Associate’s_ founder member and head of their main legal team, was her interviewer. Sweet Merlin, she didn’t think this job was important enough to be interviewed by Ms Lune herself.

 

Hermione felt a little dizzy as she sat down in a rigid chair behind a mod white desk. Ms Lune had a quick quill writing notes as she asked questions. The other two staff were content with writing their own notes, but it seemed Ms Lune wanted to keep eye contact with Hermione.

 

Most of them were questions Hermione had meticulously studied and prepared for, such as her qualifications and current studies, her aspirations, what she knew about Hecate and its values, how she could best help the firm on this particular case. Hermione pointed to references from McGonagall and Flitwick about her own note taking skills and initiative as a tutor, as well as her university professor’s positive recollection as she helped him with a project last summer on Elfish Welfare. Ms Lune, who told Hermione to call her Madge, seemed very interested in Hermione’s past volunteer work in House Elf Rights.

 

Hermione felt prepared, even for the last question.

 

The third staffer conferred with Madge for a moment before asking finally, “You have a very public history of working with Mr Harry Potter in his defeat against He Who Must Not Be Named. How can we be assured that no bias will befall you when we are representing clients who were on the losing side of the war?”

 

It was a big question. Kind of rude, on the outset - it wasn’t particularly in Hermione's job description as a legal intern to have the power where her bias could be manifested in their defence. Legal interns fetched pumpkin juice and coffee, attended meetings, took minutes and notes, conducted research and recommended ideas to their superiors - they weren’t going to be in the courtroom speaking. But her prominent role in Voldemort’s downfall certainly begged the question.

 

So Hermione turned to the final section of her portfolio, where she had begun her research for possible legal defences and evidence for one of Hecate’s clients, a person whom she held much distaste for, Draco Malfoy.

 


	5. Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Endings
> 
> A/N: Thank you to the wonderful people who reviewed last chapter - it is very humbling to hear that a few transgender readers are enjoying the story. (A reminder, I'm cis). I'm very grateful for the reception so far. I've had a few comments about Hermione and Harry talking about the law that I'd like to address quickly here. Hermione's studying to be a lawyer. She has to put aside her own personal feelings for certain criminals in order to do rightly and justly by her career and the Wizarding law. Harry and Ron express how we would all feel - Hermione's the lawyer's perspective, the impartial and fair one. Why is this taking place in this story? I didn't want this story to just be Harry's transition. As a historian, I am interested in the recovery process after war time, and let's be honest, the Wizarding World isn't going to be hunky-dory after Voldemort's dead. It's not like George lost an ear, endgame. Only Death Eaters did terrible things, endgame. There's lots of angst and grey areas for me to play with, and I intend to explore! Harry's transition needed a realistic backdrop - I can only hope you will enjoy it as it unfolds!
> 
> PS. Points to whoever can figure out which passage from HBP I reversed in a certain scene. 
> 
> *Trigger warning as this chapter explores gender dysphoria, ignorance of trans issues and references gender confirmation surgery.*

A month flew by. It was so busy, Harry wondered how he’d stayed on top of it all. It all fell into place, really: pretending to be Harry Potter, focusing on his Disguise assignment of turning himself into an unrecognisable male, babysitting Teddy, hanging out with Ron and his mates at the pub; all the while, he was mastering charming himself into the woman he wanted to physically be, working up the courage to go to a counselling session, trying not to drown in the anxiety and depression that had only manifolded since beginning to embrace his transition.

 

Hermione had won the position as a legal intern; there were two others battling it out to be the most adored intern, but Hermione was putting herself ahead of the pack with her sheer natural intelligence. The Wizarding World in the UK was abuzz with the Death Eater trials - they were only two weeks ago, and the verdict was symbolically hoping to come through close to the anniversary of the final battle. There was media coverage and protests in the streets for maximum penalties of the Dementor’s Kiss, which had been outlawed years ago. Everyone in their year at Hogwarts was whispering about Draco Malfoy who was the only Death Eater of their peers able to stand trial - Pansy Parkinson had gotten off long ago on an insanity defence, and Blaise Zabini had taken his life weeks after the battle. Everyone was morbidly hungry to see what punishment would be served.

 

For now, the papers had forgotten Harry Potter. Most days, even though he felt so alive at the knowledge he was realising his true self, Harry wish he could forget himself too.

 

“Up! Up!”

 

Teddy was tugging on the ankles of Harry’s jeans, demanding that he get on the toy broom Ginny had bought him on his first birthday. Harry swished his wand and Teddy delightedly crowed as he began to whiz around on the Baby Nimbus 2100. Harry was babysitting Teddy at his own house for the day after he and Andromeda had had lunch with Hermione, Ginny and Luna. It was Tonks’ birthday. They had celebrated and commemorated by regaling each other with stories of Tonks and talking about how she’d like to see Teddy raised. The girls talked mostly; Harry didn’t feel like he knew Tonks that much, and so just played peekaboo with Teddy most of the time.

 

Andromeda had gone to lie down for a while at home, and Harry and his friends had offered to take little Teddy for a while. Harry felt a little weirded out about having Ginny back in his apartment, but she didn’t seem to share this feeling. Luna’s lovely but always baffling one-liners made it a little more awkward for Harry, but again, Ginny just carried on like it was completely normal that she was at her ex’s place. Hermione was letting Teddy zoom in and around her legs while Ginny helped herself to the Butterbeer she knew Harry kept in the upper left compartment of he and Neville’s fridge.

 

Harry didn’t want to admit that he missed Ginny. He missed the physical contact; someone to hold close. (He missed the sex, too, but that was the minor, rather ungallant side of Harry). Letting whatever love they had fade was a slow process, and sometimes he resisted the urge to owl her to come over. But she loved someone else, and he was someone else, so it could never work out.

 

They all chatted for a while about random stuff, young magical folk stuff, before Harry went to change Teddy’s diaper (he was still in the process of toilet-training) and put him to sleep for an afternoon nap. It gave time for Harry to collect his thoughts and resolve: he wanted, no; he _needed_ to tell Ginny. He felt he owed her the truth for breaking up with her. Her infidelity was only half the reason, and she knew that, deep down. Harry had also been thinking that he could use Ginny and Luna’s help in terms of having both a support base and a transition inspiration base. With Hermione now a Hecate legal intern, she didn’t need Harry’s stress on her all the time - and he needed further support. Secondly, he considered both Ginny and Luna attractive both superficially and intrinsically. They were, like Hermione, the type of extraordinary woman he’d like to be. He had been wondering if they could help him figure out how to be more conventionally feminine.

 

Harry came back to Hermione and Ginny discussing the pros and cons of Muggle films. Luna was perusing Harry’s living room, where she came across his bookmarked charms textbook. She flipped through a few pages. Luna floated over to Harry and grabbed his right hand. “I love your nail polish colour, Harry, it’s as dark green as a fire.”

 

Harry half-froze at her comment. Ginny looked over at him, and when their gaze met, she smiled after a moment; Harry could see now that she was simply _determined_ not be weirded out.

 

“I didn’t know you painted your nails, Harry,” Ginny said softly. “The colour goes great with your eyes.”

 

Ginny seamlessly turned to her pale-haired friend. “And Luna, since when are fires _dark green_?”

 

Hermione gave Harry a look that told him to be bolstered by Ginny and Luna’s non-reaction. He took the segue and asked the two witches to sit down.

 

With Hermione’s help, Harry told them the truth: that he’d been playing dress up as a boy for too long, and that he finally wanting to begin being his truth self; female.

 

“So right now, I guess, I identify as someone called transgender. I am a trans woman. I always have been a girl...”

 

He stopped and looked at the two young women. Suddenly, Harry felt like it was a big mistake; he wished he could gobble up all the words he’d spewed forth and shove them down his throat. Saying it out loud was scary. Being Harry, the real Harry Potter, was scary right now; the rejection from the people he loved dearly was a scary probability.

 

Harry’s heart ached as he looked into Ginny’s eyes.

 

Ginny looked at Harry, horrified. Harry swallowed and tried not to cry. “Gin, if you don’t want...” They may not be dating, her approval kind of meant the world to Harry.

 

“...I really am a lesbian,” Ginny interrupted in an odd, distracted voice.

 

“Oh, there’s a subgroup of Blibbering Humdingers that are lesbians!” Luna interjected excitedly.

 

Harry and Hermione stared at them both, completely baffled.

 

“You’re gay?” Hermione echoed.

 

Ginny didn’t look at Hermione, having only eyes for Harry, but nodded slowly. Harry could see she was trying not to cry, but her chin wobbled. “I loved you and you’re a woman,” Ginny explained in a strained voice. “And I loved someone else who is a woman. S-so I guess I just have to face the facts that I’m a lesbian.”

 

Harry let that sink in for a moment.

 

“You think I’m a woman?” Harry finally whispered.

 

Ginny confusedly replied, “Isn’t that what you just said you are?”

 

Harry found himself stuck for words. Hermione sighed and explained for a quite struck Harry. “Even though you completely took Harry’s issue and turned the focus on you, Ginny, that is actually the most lovely and accepting thing you could have said.” Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand in reassurance. “Also, thank you very much for confiding in me about your sexuality.”

 

Ginny sniffed. “Don’t tell Ron. Does...he know about you, Harry?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “Not yet. Y’know him, he doesn’t really react well.”

 

The redheaded woman nodded in agreement. “Merlin, we’re a fucked up lot.”

 

“Hey, there’s nothing effed up about any of you!” Hermione protested.

 

“Easy for you to say, smartest witch of the century,” the youngest Weasley muttered in reply. “So Harry. Does it mean...you’re going to charm yourself to look like a woman? Because beauty charms, as you must be aware of by now, don’t last very long. Most of us youngins use Muggle makeup, contrary to popular belief, otherwise we’d all look like Pansy Parkinson on a good day.”

 

This was true. Harry’s nail polish experiments only stayed on for four hours or so before fading.

 

“I’m not sure. I think I want to take it a step at a time. Start with small things, like nail polish. Not being called ‘he’. Maybe….maybe changing my name. The appearance stuff is really important, I mean…” Harry thought of the way he looked. His famous scar, his messy but short hair, his defined and muscular jawline, the lean rigidity of his muscles from Auror training. His gender was _who he was_ , he was _that identity_ just out of reach on the inside; he was his soul, not the body that was visible. But to eventually have more shapely eyebrows, to have breasts, to not have facial hair….those would be an outward expression of his female self. One he envisaged very much. “It’s me adjusting to everything on the inside, the stuff you can’t see, that matters the most right now.”

 

Luna nodded serenely in agreement. Hermione looked like she was going to shed a tear of pride for Harry’s one-time eloquent expression.

 

“We can help you with cosmetics and dressing if you like, Harry,” Luna offered lovingly. “And names too! Father and I used to play such fun games naming all of the creatures in our garden.”

 

It was a very nice gesture of Luna (although Harry hoped they could all think of better names than a Crumple-Horned Snorkack).

 

Ginny grabbed Harry’s hand, and gave him a nervous smile. “Um, Harry….” she asked nervously. “You aren’t going to get rid of your cock, are you? I may be gay, but it was a still pretty banging penis.”

 

Harry felt anger and shame rise up in his chest, coiling painfully. He wrenched his hand out of Ginny’s grasp. “That’s such a fucking rude question, Ginny,” he spat, raising his voice. Teddy whimpered at the sound, still half-asleep in the next room.

 

Hermione had tactfully avoided talking to Harry about his private parts. They were, well, _private_ , and even best friends have their limits of acceptable, comfortable conversation.

 

As to his genitalia… Harry didn’t know how to feel. Did he want it there? He wasn’t sure. It reminded his of masculinity, which he hated and rejected. After perusing many online forums and talking to his counsellor, Harry had learned that some people chose to keep their genitalia while others didn’t. Like most things that came with being trans, it was up to the individual’s wishes.

 

Ginny’s question hurt deep down, though. It limited his identity to nothing more than an appendage. Tears welled in his eyes and Harry fought back the urge to cry. He hadn’t cried in front of people many times, and he still didn’t enjoy the feeling. He just wanted to escape to his room. God, then there was still Teddy he had to take back home…

 

Fuck. He felt like this had all gone so wrong. He was just the very precipice of transitioning; had he ‘come out’ too soon? Did he even really know what aspects of being female he truly wanted? He covered his face in his hands and heard Ginny start to apologise.

 

“You’re reducing his gender down to his penis, Ginny, and that’s not okay at all,” Hermione shot at Ginny in a deadly low voice. “Is your sexuality just simply the sexual acts your perform, or is it about the love you feel and who you are? Are we witches just because we can wave a wand, or because we have magic in our lives?”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Ginny said, and burst into tears again. Harry didn’t particularly feel like comforting her. Harry got the sneaking suspicion Hermione was also silently judging Ginny for cheating on Harry, so it was left to Luna to pat her awkwardly on the back. Harry swiped away his own tears furiously.

 

Teddy began to fuss in the next room. Hermione offered to go check on him.

 

“I didn’t mean to be so mean…” Ginny tried to say weakly as Hermione ducked out. “It’s just been such an emotional day.”

 

Harry calmed himself down enough to speak. “It was a mistake,” he concluded. “I guess I’m going to run into that question more than once. It just startled me, that’s all. Can we just avoid that topic from now on?”

 

Ginny and Luna both nodded. They all accioed tissues and eventually Luna and Hermione apparated home. Harry and Ginny together dropped Teddy off at Andromeda’s before Harry took Ginny the long way home, apparating in the nearest village to walk to the Burrow from there. They linked arms. Harry revelled in the scent of Ginny that smelt like home and safety, and in the warmth of her touch.

 

“I would have never guessed you always knew you were a woman, Harry. It feels like there were no signs.”

 

“I feel the same way about you being a lesbian. Are you...still seeing her? Valmai?”

 

Ginny shook her head. “She’s out already; she couldn’t handle me freaking out all the time, worried that someone would see. She said I could only go on that journey alone….or some shite.”

 

“I wonder what the papers would say if they could see us now walking arm in arm,” Harry wondered.

 

“They’d probably jump for joy, have bets on whether or not I was pregnant.” Ginny and Harry reached the edge of the Weasley property, and stood facing each other.

 

“Why does being yourself have to be so disappointing for everyone else?” Ginny asked him sadly.

 

Harry shook his head; he couldn’t give her an answer. Ginny didn’t seem to need one. She reached up on her tiptoes, and in the white evanescent glow of the moon, they shared a parting nighttime kiss. It was as quick as the twinkle of a star.

 

Ginny broke away. “That was goodbye for us,” she whispered, and kissed him again. “And hello to the real Harry and Ginny, whoever they are.”

 

The moment passed and Ginny tried to infuse cheer into the brisk night with a parting quip. “Next week I’ll come around and you can find me a girlfriend from your Auror class while I teach you how to dress like one!”

 

With a shaky laugh, Harry let Ginny go, the ghost of their relationship fading into the afterlife on his lips.

  
  
  


 


	6. Pronouns

Harry didn’t want to move. His bed was warm and inviting whereas the world was cold and unwelcoming. He knew in the back of his mind that he needed to get up for class later that day, but he reasoned that it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered any more?

 

Harry pulled the covers over his head and fell back asleep, a lull of nothingness and hopelessness and white noise.

 

*

 

Harry had found himself shaking so much after his talk with Ginny and Luna that he took a dreamless sleep potion just to knock himself out from the anxiety. They had been supportive, yes, but Harry had realised how distant his identity was from anything the Wizarding World or even the Muggle world knew. He had spent years at school being the odd one out, the freak who could speak to snakes, the special Boy Who Lived, the one who put his name in the goblet of fire, the attention seeker, the idolised hero. He knew what it was to be gossiped about and hated and feared. It made him realise that being out about who he really was going to be hard, almost impossible. It seemed too difficult. A future where he was female, out, supported and loved...it would take years…

 

Harry didn’t know if he could wait years.

 

And so he’d shut himself up in his room, hiding from himself and the world in his bed for days on end. Harry, frankly, was scared out what he might do to himself. Hatred at his body felt like a sickly coating that wouldn’t rub off; Harry found himself wanting to scrub and peel and cut until his body wasn’t there anymore. He took more dreamless sleep, but it didn’t work. One afternoon, Harry dragged himself into the shower with the arduous task of shaving his face. He hated shaving...but both shaving and growing facial hair reminded Harry of what he wasn’t.

 

He turned the water on too cold for this time of the year. He moved the blades along his lower jaw and along his upper lip carefully. Harry held back tears and the sickening feeling in his stomach as he shaved. Harry rinsed the razor under the water. The blades were sharp and silver under his fingers.

 

Harry, suddenly, raised the razor up to his adam’s apple. One good slash and it would be gone. And Harry would be gone, too. Wouldn’t it be nice, to go beyond that eternal train station he saw three years ago? To catch the express train into nothingness?

 

He felt horror at what his life had become. It had been almost easier, in a way, to just pretend to be what he had been assigned at birth. _Harry_ Potter, the Boy Who Lived, tucked in the cupboard under the stairs and bestowed with the power TomRiddle knew not.

 

At the back of his mind, Harry could analyse what he was doing, like he was watching himself from a new pair of eyes while his emotions cut jaggedly across his heart. He could almost hear his sweet friend Hermione’s voice in his ear, telling him it was just the dysphoria. But Harry brought the razor closer at the base of his throat, and began to press in, revelling at the sharp, stinging pain of his flesh being cut. Harry closed his eyes and pressed harder. He suddenly saw himself as two separate entities: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The girl who knew he was. Neither, in the end, could live while the other survived.

 

In that moment, Harry knew. This other, this feeling of disconnectedness and wrongness and godlessness in this body, in this sex, would never have had let Harry Potter survive. He knew if he had not been where he was right now, in the beginnings of this chapter of his life as a transgender woman, he would have been dead. Was that any different to know as he stood in the shower, crying, a razor cutting into his skin and death wish on his lips?

Harry had the power to become who he truly was, not hide and become someone else, something else, as Riddle had. He could be generous enough with the world and with himself to be the best he could be, his true self. What had he been called all his life - what were those Gryffindor traits the Sorting Hat saw in him? Bravery? Honesty? Strength?

 

Those qualities were in death, Harry knew. He had known too many friends after the war who had been strong for so long, and that strength had lead them to suicide. The release was so, so tempting for Harry. It had been tempting for such a long time. Dumbledore had seen that, Harry knew, as they stood in the ethereal afterlife Platform.

 

But Harry deep down, Harry realised, he could have that release in life.

 

_They_ could.

 

Harry wandlessly transfigured the razor into the first thing they could think of, a butterfly of all things, and set it flying away from them as fast as they could, afraid of what they’d do with it in their hands. Harry took those hands, swiped the blood that was staining their neck, and cradled their head and cried.

 

*

 

Harry didn’t tell Hermione about the cutting. Harry felt ashamed that they had doubted themself, ashamed that this revelation which they was sure would be great had indeed sunk the ex-wizard so low. For two weeks after, Harry lost the motivation which had driven them to wear nail polish and to master a feminine appearance with magic. They slowly had to build it up again.

 

Harry went to their first trans support group meeting at the Shelton Centre. It was almost too confronting and wonderful at the same time, to see real live trans people, people who were in various stages of transitioning. Harry covered up that famous scar and changed their eye colour to blue for good measure, just in case, by some wild chance, that the Boy Who Lived was recognised. Harry opted not to talk, just to listen. They looked at these cool and courageous people when Harry thought they weren’t looking, but mostly didn’t keep eye contact, in case this secret sense of wonder was betrayed to them. A girl with red spiky hair, however, caught Harry’s eye and winked right back at them. She seemed nice, and made a move to talk to Harry after the session, but Harry quickly left.

 

Harry had only been to three counselling sessions at Shelton. While they knew in theory (and from Hermione’s prodding), that it would be good to keep going especially since he had self-harmed, the magical person still felt uncomfortable talking about themself after so many years of doing precisely the opposite. It also spoke to the divide both Harry and Hermione clearly saw of transitioning when magical: there were procedures in place for Muggles to physically and legally transition, but in the Wizarding world, there weren’t any.

 

One had to see a counsellor to be properly diagnosed with gender dysphoria; a team of doctors had to decide whether things like hormone replacement therapy and gender reaffirming surgery were suitable; the process of legally changing your name could be emotionally arduous and costly, too. It was a horrible process that treated being trans like a mental illness instead of a place on the gender spectrum, but at least Muggles _had_ a process. As far as they could tell, there wasn’t much in the Wizarding World. There were a few famous magical drag queens, but that was it. But while there wasn’t any recognition of trans identities or issues from magical folk… Harry could change appearance permanently with the use of potions and spells, and transfigure it temporarily too. Changing your name in the Wizarding World was a simple visit to a registry at the ministry. But Harry would be hard pressed to find out trans people in the Wizarding World to help and understand what Harry was going through. So while Harry liked the support group, and reasoned they could keep themself mentally healthy by going instead of seeing counsellors, Harry was very set on changing himself magically. It was less expensive, less time-consuming, and full of less societal hoops to jump through.

 

Harry’s Disguise and Concealment assignment had helped him come to this conclusion. They currently found themself in the living room, eating a sandwich and making notes from one of Hermione’s giant advanced transfiguration spell books. The magical person had found some great spells that permanently changed one’s physical appearance, and was jotting them down on a new piece of parchment. Dipping a brown quill into a fast-dwindling ink pot, Harry scrawled:

 

_Reparifarge_ \- spell - removes unwanted transfigurations

 

_Oculus mutatio_ \- charm - changes eye colour, think of eye colour when casting charm

 

_Capillorum mutatio_ \- charm, changes hair colour, same as above

 

_Barbulterius_ \- charm - casts more facial hair

 

_Crinitugeo_ \- spell - causes hair to grow longer, can be used with a hair-thickening charm

 

_Colouro_ \- charm - changes colour of objects such as clothes, say with intended colour ‘ _colouro pink, colouro blue_ ’

 

_Pictor Colouro_ \- charm - paints nails with temporary nail polish

 

These spells could be made temporary by adding the word ‘ _aetes_ ’ at the end of the spell. After scouring the book for any more spells that hadn’t been found the first few times, Harry headed to bed.

 

Harry slept restlessly, nightmares of the War marching on in their head. The green-eyed boy woke up far too early on Monday morning, giving up sleeping as a bad job, and ate breakfast with an equally sleepy deprived Neville and Hannah Abbott (but Harry guessed nightmares weren’t what kept them up). Harry soon went back into their room, ready to practice their assignment draft until he had it perfect. That afternoon, Harry would have to show their assignment work so far to their teacher.

 

Harry pointed their wand at their face, standing in front of the bedroom mirror. The nail polish had even been bloody hard, at first, but now Harry could effectively change their eye and hair colour, hair length, and nose shape and height. What Harry needed to master both before the assignment was due and before they fell into a desperate depression again was how to change the shape of one’s face or jaw, lips and figure. Harry felt those, along with hair length, were three of the biggest hurdles at ‘presenting’ female. For the class assignment, Harry had modelled themself on turning into Robards as a disguise. It was a little awkward to find a picture of Robards and place it on their own mirror, but Harry had needed a visual guide. They supposed Robards was handsome (never really thinking anything of it), but Harry didn’t need anyone thinking they had a crush on his teacher!

 

With a confident utterance of, “ _Nasus mutatio aetes_!”, Harry’s nose transfigured to be longer and wider than their own. “ _Capillorum mutatio aetes_ ” charmed their hair to a ruddy brown. Harry eyes were then charmed brown too, as they gave themelf a dusting of a two days past-shaving beard with a swishy wave of “ _Barbulterius!_ ”.

 

Harry stared at Robards in the mirror. Harry grinned with Robards mouth. They were definitely going to kick arse on this piece of assignment. The magician felt proud of their work, and couldn’t wait to show their classmates - something Harry never really felt in school, where lots of work took the backburner, or where Harry simply sucked or couldn’t care (aka potions).

 

Harry was almost (almost) startled as a rapping at their window alerted them to a dusty grey owl holding a letter. Harry let the tiny owl in, and let him take a drink from Harry’s new owl’s water bowl. Harry ached for Hedwig as their new owl, Morgana, a black, slick looking owl, coolly let this tiny bird drink some of her water. Morgana had been a tentative eighteenth birthday present from Ginny - Morgana shared the same temperament as Hedwig, (superior, smart, caring and agile) but thankfully looked nothing like her.

  
Harry felt their heart plummet as Ginny’s familiar scrawl unfurled beneath their fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to pass out some chocolate after a few intense Dementors floated by in that chapter. But hooray, Harry has taken another big step and is now using 'they, them, 'themself' as their pronouns. My lovely readers and reviewers - what do you think Ginny's letter says?


	7. Mudbloods

The cold, dank air of Azkaban rattled the bones and chilled the hearts. Although Dementors were long gone, the dark Wizarding prison on the edge of the sea remained as lifeless and cold as ever. In a cell Draco Malfoy occupied by himself, the yellow slip of a young man watched as an underpaid guard jammed keys and unlocked his cell. The guard slowly pulled back the heavy, rolling cell door. It was the Muggle mechanisms were what perhaps really made this Merlin forsaken place that much worse for Draco, he reflected. How he itched to hold his wand, or even cast a wandless spell that would work against the anti-spell goal wards.

“I don’t suppose you are letting me go,” he drawled to the man who seemed as monochromatic and drab as their grimy surroundings. Draco felt a little panic flare inside of him. Try as he might to seem cool, unlocking his cell was out of routine. Visiting periods were restricted to once a month, and his had been and gone recently with a teary visit from his mother.

The guard didn’t say anything, as per usual. Draco wondered if it were true, as some of his more…flamboyant (crazy) fellow inmates said that all the guards were squibs, and mute to boot. He lead Draco, his hands cuffed and chained, to a small room they used for family visits, with a few rudimentary tables and chairs. The lighting of the room was dim, which hid the state of filth quite well. It was empty except for a small, slim woman with a head of shocking wild hair. The pale man’s eyes narrowed, his instinctive, ingrained irritation overwhelming his utter surprise at seeing such a person here - and here to see him. 

Draco Malfoy still had a sense of pride, and some sort of image to maintain. “Granger,” he said as impressively as he could. He looked her up and down, a burst of colour, however neutral. The Mudblood had cut her mane, and wore professional Muggle garb underneath a big wooly cloak. She looked older, tireder, but much more confident than he remembered. He supposed he looked a right treat, in a prisoner uniform and three week’s worth of grime stuck to his shoes. His hair hung limp at his temples, unkempt.

Hermione Granger obviously felt his appearance was her first port of call. “I represent your lawyers at the Hecate firm, Mr Malfoy.” His lips curled instinctively at being called a title by this bushy-haired buffoon. She held out a bag and with a consenting nod from the Azkaban guard, passed it to Draco. 

He grabbed it clumsily, still handcuffed. He peered inside nonchalantly and saw new, clean clothes, including black wizarding robes. “I wasn’t aware lawyers now offered personal styling services,” the blond man replied.

“I’m escorting you along with an Auror to a cell in London where you will remain until your upcoming trial,” Granger explained patiently. “It’s in a week - letters were sent out to all involved parties, the accused, witnesses, the defence, as I’m sure you’re aware.” The flashed a copy of the aforementioned letter in front of him. It was the same one her friend, Harry Potter, had received days prior by way of his ex-girlfriend, Ginny Weasley. 

Time slipped away between the cracks of these prison cells. It had seemed like decades ago now that his mother had mentioned the trial, and shown him the letter. Draco’s insides grew colder at the mention of his possible lifetime incarcaration. He didn’t realise it was actually possible to feel colder when the Azkaban winds cracked at his frame like whips of ice. 

“I thought you would like some clean clothes upon leaving. We have quite a way to travel,” Granger continued. 

Draco Malfoy looked into the eyes of the girl he’d taunted and tortured. He wanted to ask why on earth she was helping him. He accepted the clothes with an assenting nod, savouring the weight tailored cotton in his grasp.

The clothes fit perfectly. Draco Malfoy cursed Mudbloods everywhere. Returning to the visitor’s room, he certainly did not bid farewell to the guards or the scum inmates, instead ignoring their jeers as the rattled their cell bars at his departure. Freedom, however small it could be while being escorted by an authority, felt so good. Years at this pathetic place crumbled away like its infrastructure as Granger and Draco crossed the threshold. 

An ageing Auror waited at the bottom of a set of precarious steps that clung desperately to the edge of Azkaban. Draco Malfoy recognised the man, Robards, as the man who had arrested him not long after that final battle in the Great Hall.

Robards did not have much to say, simply exchanging looks with Granger and ignoring Draco entirely. Draco tried to not let it get to him. They took off in a small enclosed boat, which Draco found a little sickening. Not only to be jostled by the swell of the sea, but to be in such Muggle contraption. Who knew if it would even float all the way?

His hands were still handcuffed and Robards had a magical ward around him preventing him from doing magic. The Auror was eyeballing him from across the floor, where he was speaking to the ship’s driver. (For you could hardly call him a captain of such a dingy…ugh, invention). Malfoy was permitted to sit on a navy blue seat that jutted out from the wall. Ugly rain lashed at the boat windows as the Azkaban winds threatened to haunt them like ghosts, even as they slowly sailed further and further away. 

Granger sat nearby, her nosy buried in a book. A quick-quotes quill hovered in the air above a long roll of bleached-white parchment. It seemed she hadn’t changed much.

“Stop staring, Malfoy,” Granger couldn’t help but let slip out after a while.

“How are you even allowed to be a part of my legal team?” he wondered. “One would think you would have a vendetta against me.”

The witch bookmarked her page, put down her book, and walked over to Draco to beside him. She tugged on his handcuffs. “Who said I don’t?” she said in a low, menacing voice. A heavy wave crashed against the boat in great, frightening timing.

“Excuse me?” Draco began to splutter, until the young woman let out a soft, tinkling laugh.

“I’m not testifying in this trial - there are plenty more witnesses with more damaging claims against you. You remember Katie Bell, right?”

Granger raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m on my way to becoming a Wizarding lawyer. This is the trial of the century. Regardless of how I feel personally about war and memorialising, I am a war hero. I was instrumental in defeating Voldemort.” Draco flinched at the name. “People feel they owe me a degree of latitude. I’m not dumb enough to be humble.”

Granger had certainly never lacked ambition. Draco could see that, somewhat scarily, hadn’t changed.

“Speaking of humility, how is your dear Potter?” He tried to imagine what the great Scarhead would be doing now. Probably teaching at Hogwarts, reliving his glory days, probably already breeding with the Weasley girl. 

“Why do you care?” was the frank response.

Draco tried to cover his cool. “I’ve lived in a cell for the past two years, Granger. Even boring news would be interesting to me right now.”

Granger rolled her eyes and walked back over to her book. Her quill resumed scratching on the hovering parchment. 

Malfoy sighed and turned to look out at the vast, aggressive ocean to his left. He thought that the least depressing conversation he’d had in months was over when Granger murmured to him. 

“I know what you think of me, and I know what you think of Harry, but you’re dead wrong. Harry is different,” her words seemed heavy, stressed. “But Harry was always right about you.”

“Is that supposed to hurt, Granger?” Malfoy drawled. It did, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“No,” she said with a small smile. “It just means my bosses are going to have to pull off a hell of a magic act to get you cleared of all charges.”

Malfoy was left with those depressing thoughts rolling around in his mind as the boat continued on. He spent the time observing his new clothes; the way the quick-quotes quills had been updated with a different feather; and of course, ignoring any guilt and shame in how it felt that Harry Potter could perhaps know him better than he knew himself.

Finally, they reached a secure Portkey location. In a dizzying dissolve of colour, space and time, Malfoy, escorted by Robards and Granger, found himself in the lobby of the Ministry for Magic. They were in front of the entrance. The doors were closed, which was unusual. Robards left Malfoy with a new replacement Auror, some young guy with spiky green hair as he and Granger ran around arranging Grindelwald knows what.

Hermione Granger rushed back to him after conferring with two sharply dressed women for ten minutes. She introduced him to his lawyers, who pumped his hands and said they’d secure him freedom. They didn’t seem to really see him; they seemed more focused on the abstract concept of the case looming before them. Questions about seeing his family were basically ignored - they were doing the press thing before taking him to his new cell in central London, where they’d begin the actual legal briefing. 

“The doors are closed because there are reporters outside,” Granger told him as the lawyers went off, and with a quick charm, undid his handcuffs. “There are three Aurors behind you if you tried to make a run for it, with at least ten plain clothes Aurors outside milling amongst the press. Don’t do it, Draco,” she said in a firm tone, like a scolding teacher. Draco responded with his best glare.

“Don’t take me a for a fool,” he said coldly.

“Don’t take me a for a Mudblood,” Granger snapped back, out of earshot from his superiors. “You still have a ward around you, and I can hex you into next week.”

Malfoy could not hear reporters outside, with their flashing cameras and quivering quills poised for the money shot. He felt nervous, and ran his fingers through his unkept hair. 

Granger saw this. She flicked her fingers at his hair to perform a wandless hair charm. His pale blond hair slicked back perfectly, so that he assumed the appearance the world would know him for. Elegant, regal, a pureblood. 

Draco seethed at such kindness. He began haughtily, “I suppose you want me to thank you…”

“No need,” Granger interrupted, and gestured for him to step out of the Ministry doors and into the awaiting gaggle of press. “I’m just doing my job.”

That blow sunk low. Granger was only here to advance whatever career she wanted to get her silly Muggle hands on. Granger would gain from his mistakes.

Draco straightened his collar, and with his head held high, followed his lawyer’s little bitch into the glare of flashing lights and salacious headlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change of pace and perspective for Truth in Transformation...let me know what you think!


	8. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to those who have waited. My sincerest apologies - my thousands of excuses boil down to the fact that I have a chronic illness and it sucks my soul out like a dementor. Thanks to Jo for all of her Harry Potter discussions with me and to the HP Wiki for helping me get some Wizarding terms correct. A big shout out to readers carowen, asupermario47, crimsonelf and PrettyPhoenix for their encouraging words and thoughful theories about what will happen. 
> 
> Fomatting is being icky, so excuse the lack of italics for now. Will try and fix asap.

WHEN WILL JUSTICE BE SERVED? The bleak, black headlines of the Daily Prophet asked a foreboding question. Harry watched a photo of Draco Malfoy looking at flashing cameras sullenly as he stood trial. His photographic gaze refused to meet Harry’s and the green-eyed magician searched the paper for any clues on how the Death Eater trials were going. Since Harry had received Ginny's letter to say she'd heard whispers that some of them might have to testify, Harry had been following the cases as close as they could.

 

Harry set the paper down on they and Neville’s kitchen table with a sigh. The aforementioned wizard came in and gratefully accepted a stack of toast Harry had made for them both a few minutes earlier. It was early morning in the beginning of December: cold, damp and slushy. Definitely a day to have a bit of a lie-in. But Neville had work, and Harry had school, and so they were up. Their apartment was a bit shabby looking, with them both being too busy lately to clean the dishes. 

 

Neville’s new Mimbulus Mimbletonia sagged forlornly in the lounge room corner, decorated with small fairy lights – which were made of real, tiny fairies. Harry loved Christmas time, and couldn’t wait for it to come around. Christmas to Harry felt like home and safety. They would get to help Mrs Weasley wrap up the stacks of Weasley jumpers she made; they would get to spoil little Teddy rotten and watch their godson fall asleep in their arms. Ron would get gloriously drunk on eggnog, and Hermione would titter from behind some new tome her boyfriend had bought her. The Yule holidays were happy days for Harry – and so Harry couldn’t wait. 

 

Since their shower revelations, Harry had been more determined than ever to become their true self, no matter whatever public reputation it cost. Hermione was practically unreachable amidst the Death Eater trials, but had sent him a quick letter to say she had some books on gender in the Wizarding World she wanted to lend him when she had the chance – hopefully this weekend. 

 

She’d also scrawled a little note at the end to say there were no legal ramifications for being transgender – it was barely acknowledged, and in addition being trans was not akin to being a magical creature, and so it was not illegal. Harry would only face personal backlash – and Harry reasoned if they had defeated Voldemort, a few haters wouldn't be too hard. They thought of the Weasleys’, and never being invited to another Christmas at the Burrow, but quickly banished that thought from their mind. It was too painful.

 

Neville had quietly accepted Harry’s changing demeanour and appearance. Harry had stopped working on their arm muscles, and was looking slowly more like a younger, skinner version of themself. Harry wore green nail polish, and was letting their hair grow – it was almost to their chin now, and Harry could pull into a very small ponytail, which they did sometimes. Harry never missed a shaving day, and had let Ginny attack their eyebrows with a little success – they were more neatly groomed then they once were, in any case.

 

Harry was grateful for Neville not prying. Neville would be told soon enough, and Ginny reasoned she had enough dirt on Neville’s “escapades” during her sixth year at Hogwarts to blackmail him into accepting Harry. Harry was wary about his ex’s methods, sometimes. She definitely was not one to be trifled with – Valmai, the Harpies Chaser who had been caught unawares in her house by a harmless yet surprising Bat Bogey Hex, could testify to that. 

 

Harry checked the time on the watch the Weasleys’ had given them on their seventeenth birthday and cursed. They were late for their first class. The Boy Who Lived Twice bid Neville farewell through a mouthful of marmalade on toast as they grabbed their book bag and Apparated to the Ministry. 

 

Luckily, Harry’s teacher was late, and Harry slipped into a seat next to Seamus Finnegan. Harry smiled, hid their nails under their notebook, and asked Seamus how his assignment was going.

 

“Good,” replied Seamus. “I mean, I’ve barely started, but we’ve got like two weeks, hey?”

 

Harry held back the urge to laugh. This must be how Hermione felt all those years at Hogwarts. “It’s due in three days, Seamus.”

 

Seamus almost jumped out of his chair. “Blimey! How am I meant to transfigure myself into a brick in two days?”

 

“Dunno,” Harry said, and a giggle slipped out.

 

Just then, Auror Robards strode into the Concealment and Disguise class. “Morning class! Whose finished their assignments already?”

 

“I’m screwed,” groaned Seamus, sinking in his seat.

 

 

Harry spent the afternoon practicing three different persons they was going to present in class. After dinner, the magician then tidied up the written component of the assignment. They forlornly wished Hermione wasn’t so tied up with the Death Eater trials and could proofread his work. At least it seemed like Hermione’s legal team were winning so far – not that Harry particularly wanted Malfoy out on the streets!

 

Around nine pm, Harry got a letter from Luna. Her tiny white owl pecked at Harry’s fingers until they found some water to drink as Harry unfurled the parchment.

 

Hello Harry,

Girls night tomorrow night? You said the other day you wanted a makeover, and Daddy’s out of the country this week, so we can transform you at our new house! Maybe we could clean your aura too, it has looked a little cloudy lately.

Let me know, and bring something to imbibe us,

Luna 

PS. Tonight is a super moon if you care to look outside.

 

At the bottom of the letter, Luna listed her new address. Harry smiled and looked out the bedroom window. Indeed, the moon looked different. Harry wrote a reply confirming their attendance and the willing supply of booze. The magician almost felt tingly with excitement – a makeover. A chance to do more than nails. Something outside to match Harry’s insides. Luna’s owl took flight and swooped past the glorious white orb on its way back to Luna.

 

The next day passed far too slowly for Harry’s liking. They picked up a twelve-pack of expensive Blishen’s Firewhisky and Apparated to Luna’s address as she’d listed it on her letter.

 

Luna had invited Harry over to her new family home for a quote unquote “girl’s night”. She and her father had found a new place over the other side of the quiet little suburb that also housed The Burrow. Luna had redecorated, and the modest brick home had splashes of bright colour on the walls and garish furnishings on the inside. It was a very Lovegood home, one would suppose.

 

Harry looked at Luna fondly. She was certainly an odd duck, but Harry didn’t mind her weirdness. It was admirable, really, how confident Luna was in her absurdity. 

 

Harry and Luna chatted while Luna got out some chips for them to eat. Harry looked around her kitchen from a stool they sat on behind an island bench. There was a bunch of radishes in what appeared to be a fruit bowl, and the Lovegood’s shelves were stacked with a range of herbs, spices and seasonings Harry couldn’t begin to identify. “Your house is lovely,” Harry observed. 

 

The pale witch thanked her guest, opening some potato chips and roasted nuts, pouring the snack medley into a bowl.

 

“I brought Firewhisky,” Harry added. Without asking, the magician cracked open a bottle for them both and knocked one back. A little liquid courage was needed for tonight’s superficial escapades – and Harry had long run out of Felix Felicis.

 

Luna accepted a bottle of Firewhisky from Harry and began drinking. They talked lightly of Harry’s Auror assignments – his disguise assignment from Robards was due for presentation in two days – and Luna’s new role as Magizoologist writer at the Quibbler. As a Wizarding naturalist, Luna spent her free time studying magical creatures – real and unconfirmed – and wrote about them in a monthly column. Luna had plans to study and travel abroad next year to get a proper Magizoologist qualification, which to Harry’s complete lack of surprise, was not recognised in Wizarding Britain as a proper field of study.

 

Luna was delighted to inform Harry that Dennis Creevey had become the Quibbler’s new photographer, and was on his first report about Blimmering Humdingers. Dennis had picked up his brother’s camera when it fell with Colin in the Battle of Hogwarts, and hadn’t put it down since. Harry shivered at the thought of poor Colin, and changed the subject. They summoned a copy of Witch Weekly and began flicking through its gossipy pages.

 

“Ginny and Hermione aren’t much for makeup,” Luna commented lightly as Harry got to the style section. “I quite enjoy it, but I tend to go overboard in a very glamorous style, so we’ll try and keep it light for you. I actually stole these old copies of Witch Weekly from my gynaecologist for us to model our fashion tips from!”

 

Harry flushed pink at the mention of a gynaecologist but chose not to comment. Harry finished their drink and decided to start some of the night’s main task – the makeover. “Might as well start,” Harry said nervously.

 

Harry performed the charm they had found to elongate hair by incanting, “Crinitugeo!” With a swish of a wand and a glowing light, long, straight black tresses fell to Harry’s waist. “Too long?” Harry asked.

 

Luna nodded as she poured Firewhisky into a cup of hot chocolate for herself. “Try shoulder length,” she suggested. “Nargles like to make burrows in longer hair, as I’ve always warned Ginny.”

 

With a neat flick of their wand, Harry made their dark hair stop at their shoulders, and at Luna’s suggestion, added a side fringe. 

 

“A lovely start, Harry,” Luna complimented. Harry ran their fingers through their hair. It wasn’t much longer than Harry’s natural hair, but had become less messy, for once in their life, as it had lengthened. Harry liked this longer hairstyle a lot – something on the outside to match my insides, Harry thought happily.

 

Harry was a little bit apprehensive about make up – Luna was about the only girl he knew that wore loud make up on a daily basis – and settled for applying Morgan Le Fay’s Major Mascara in the shade of Unlucky Black Cat, a product that Witch Weekly columnists swore by. Luna then proceeded to almost poked Harry’s famed emerald eyes out with a little furry mascara brush – but one look in the mirror told Harry that the effect was dramatic. Harry’s eyelashes were black, long and thick – utterly feminine. 

 

Harry blinked rapidly, staring at a feminine face in the mirror, getting used to the feeling of actually acknowledging eyelashes existed. 

 

Now they both were up to their third or fourth drinks, they both felt a little sillier and freer. Harry felt excited at the small changes already, however how temporary.

 

Harry queried, “Now what?” 

 

Luna eyed Harry thoughtfully for a moment before dashing to her room and bringing back a giant pile of clothes, dumping them on the lounge room floor before them. “This clothing stuff will be interesting,” Luna mused. “Ginny and I discussed what size you would be…”

 

The eccentric magician then came over and placed her hands on Harry’s hips. Harry almost choked on their mouthful of Firewhisky as their face grew warm. They were sure they were blushing. 

 

“Your hips are quite narrow, but you’ve always been skinny, though,” Luna explained. Her hands then smoothed up Harry’s sides until she reached their pecs. Harry tried to dismiss how dizzy and delighted they felt by their friend’s touch. “And your shoulders and chest are very broad, so you have that shape most guys would dream of…” Luna then, to Harry’s extreme embarrassment and delight, squeezed their biceps. “You have stopped working out though, right?” she asked, pale silver eyes staring curiously.

 

They’d talked about Harry’s physicality last time the two had seen each other. Harry found themself nodding. “I’m still doing running and crunches for Auror school, but not doing weights or anything anymore so my body can go a little…softer,” Harry explained awkwardly.

 

They decided to begin by trying on clothes. Luna came into her room with a dress for Harry to try on. It was a formal dress, knee length, silver with flowers. Luna and Harry both liked the dress itself but agreed it wasn’t much of Harry’s style. Luna then brought a white skirt with long pleats.

 

Harry zipped up the skirt. It felt…very odd. Exposed – very much so. Harry blushed. “I think I might be more of a jeans type girl than a skirt wearer,” they said in a small voice after a moment. “A little more Ginny than Luna,” they added, to which Luna laughed her odd, tinkling laugh.

 

“I’ll bring some jeans and shirts,” she agreed, and accio’d more clothes into the room. 

 

“Women’s jeans are a little less baggy,” Luna explained as Harry wiggled some dark grey jeans on. They still felt a little embarrassed by getting half-naked in front of Luna – they could have sworn she was checking them out! Once the fly was zipped up, Harry finished off a second Firewhisky. 

 

Harry tried on a simple navy button up t-shirt with white polka dots. They then moved towards Luna’s long bedroom mirror and couldn’t help but smile. Shoulder length hair, mascara, a cute top and jeans. “Lovely outfit, my dear,” agreed the mirror heartily. 

 

Harry felt one step closer to being their true self. 

 

Luna had come over next to Harry to admire their handiwork.

 

“Thanks, Luna,” Harry said eagerly. Luna smiled and waved away Harry’s thanks. She went to get more chips for them both to eat. Harry closed their eyes for a moment, the synth-pop sounds of The Wyrd Sisters filling their ears. One step closer, Harry thought, and swayed to the music, envisioning this new Potter walking down the streets, going to work, having a family…

 

Then, Harry felt feather-light lips on their own. Harry opened their eyes to see Luna’s grey gaze looking at them fondly. Her lips were warm, soft. She smelt like lavender and chocolate. 

 

“You looked so peaceful, I just had to kiss you,” Luna commented airily. 

 

A beat, and then, “I’ve always wanted to kiss you.” 

 

Harry couldn’t say the same, and was quite shocked – but dating Ginny had meant Harry wasn’t as dim witted about girls and their desires as they once were. Putting their Seeker reflexes into action, Harry seized upon the feeling, and pulled Luna in for another kiss.

 

It felt strange, kissing a friend, but also nice. Luna’s sickle earrings jangled merrily in Harry’s ears as Luna pulled herself closer into their embrace. The two lips parted, warm tongues met, and Harry could feel that old lion’s roar of heady desire within. Luna led Harry to the floor on which the piles of feminine clothes were. She pushed Harry onto their back, straddling the magician as their combined kissing grew more passionate. It felt natural, flowing, free of consequences with Luna.

 

“Harry,” Luna began, and pulled away to look at her almost lover quickly. “I’d like us to have sex, if you don’t mind? My morning tarot reading spoke of the Lovers and Sun, and I believe it would just be lovely if we did it.”

 

Harry inwardly snorted. Magical cards told Luna she should have sex with Harry Potter? They supposed it was a little dreamier than his ex’s, “I want to fuck you so hard your glasses snap off.” Certainly not the weirdest proposition the Boy Who Lived Twice had ever received.

 

“That sounds nice,” Harry said, in a dreamy Luna fashion. It wasn’t serious, and it wouldn't go anywhere – this wasn’t their moment of kismet and forever, it was a moment of fun and desire.

 

Both of their tongues and morals were loose with booze. They continued kissing. Harry ran their hands through Luna’s white blonde mane and pulled slightly, making the witch moan breathily into their mouth.

 

“My tarot specifically spoke of cunnilingus,” Luna continued. “Does that interest you?”

 

Harry opened their eyes and looked up at Luna. Her cerulean eyes were all knowing, in a way much different to Hermione’s, but infused with the same kindness. They hadn’t spoken of it, but Harry was a little worried about using their penis in sex – whatever you could say about their being no male or female roles in sex, Harry didn’t want to feel relegated to that act straight away.

 

Harry rolled Luna over so that they were above Luna, straddling the pale witch. “It interests me very much,” Harry whispered, and began to suckle on Luna’s earlobe and reach under her robes. Harry’s long, dark hair fell like a curtain across their face as Harry’s kisses explored Luna’s body. Both of their robes were undone, their white and black hair splaying out into each other on the floor. 

 

Harry marvelled at Luna’s ivory body, her ample, soft breasts held tight in a pale lavender bra. Luna was curvy, more fleshier for Harry to explore than he had done with partners before. Her skin was soft and dimpled slightly as Harry trailed kisses from the valley of her breasts to her rubenesque stomach and found her underwear. Luna helped Harry pull down her underwear, and moaned as Harry’s soft mouth moved past her light pubic hair and down towards her most intimate parts. 

 

Harry moved an expert tongue back and forth, round and round, slow and right, until Luna screamed out, “Sweet Nargles!” in breathy ecstasy. Harry couldn't help but laugh, suffused by pleasure and the absurdity of this dear friend. When Luna came down from her orgasmic high, her grateful lips found Harry’s. 

 

They snuggled together as Harry let Luna ethereally ramble about a sex dream she’d had recently involving magical zoologist Rolf Scamander and a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry savoured the feelings of desire and kindness that hovered across their skin where Luna’s pale fingers grazed every so often. Sex wasn’t everything, but it was something, a step closer, and Harry felt so grateful. Harry leaned over and smoothed Luna’s hair out of her eyes. Harry gently kissed her.

 

“Thank you,” Harry said to their dear friend, and meant it whole-heartedly. 

 

“You make a beautiful lover, and a beautiful woman,” Luna told him. Harry could have cried with happiness, but instead settled for another kiss.


	9. Relationships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted for clarity and minor typos.

Harry was used to breaking the rules. From sneaking out of the Dormitory to breaking into Gringotts, there weren’t many rules left Harry hadn’t bent. Today, for their Auror assignment, Harry did not want to admit the danger in breaking a rule: failure of an Auror class. Harry stubbornly (and perhaps foolishly) hoped that Robards would see it, as McGongall and Dumbledore had once upon a time, Harry’s abandonment for authority as a positive in some sense.

Harry fiddled with the amethyst-gem necklace as it lay on their chest nervously. Harry was in that moment very glad they hadn’t told Hermione about this part of their assignment plan. Harry wasn’t breaking the rules of this assignment…just bending them. Slightly. 

Harry was in the unisex bathroom outside the Auror department, wand at the ready. Harry swallowed, said a prayer to the Quidditch gods, and whispered, “Oculus mutatio.” The jade eyes Harry had changed to bright blue. 

A muffled “Crinitugeo!” came next. Straight hair, jet black and cut sharply to the shoulders, transformed Harry’s face. The fringe hid Harry’s infamous scar. Harry tweaked their glasses slightly so they were no longer round, but cat-eyed.

Harry took off their jumper to reveal a simple purple t-shirt. Harry enlarged a pair of black kitten heels they had stowed away, minimised by magic, in their book bag. Harry slipped them on, tottered slightly at the different way of standing. A large amethyst-gemmed necklace disguise Harry’s lack of distinctive chest. A bra Ginny had bought Harry gave the illusion of breasts, however small. 

Harry then transfigured, after a few tries, their own nametag to one that said ‘Harlow’. This was the part that made Harry the most nervous – not only was Harry doing something daring for this assignment, but they were also trying out the name they had realised was their true feminine name. ‘Harlow’ was now scrawled across the nametag in a messy, cursive script.

Harlow Anderson exited the bathroom with a book bag stuffed with Harry’s jumped and shoes. Harlow flipped their hair over their shoulder and made a show of looking around for the right room in the Auror department. Harlow’s heels echoed down the tiled floor until they found the door and pushed open.

Inside was Kinsgley Shacklebolt and two other female Aurors Harry had never met before. 

Harlow smiled and sighed.

“Great, I finally found the right spot!” they said brightly. Harlow unconsciously felt at their throat, hoping the higher register they used for their feminised voice worked well. 

“I’m from admin, Robards said they needed a spare obstacle today for the second-year maze,” Harlow explained. 

The three Aurors accepted this explanation pretty easily. Harlow asked for the time sheet to sign off on so she would get paid for this extra hour of work, and forged a signature with ease. Harlow then trotted off to find her place in the maze as the others did too.

Harry could hardly breathe when they finally reached the safety of the unisex bathroom and muttered, “Reparifarge,” to reverse the transfigurations. 

It just might have worked.

\---

“Okay, Potter, you’re up.”

Harry tensed as Auror Robards called out their name. It was Harry’s turn to present their assignment. The class was standing in one of the training rooms in the Auror department of the Ministry. It was normally spacious and bare, but today it was filled with a maze. Flashbacks to their fourth year and Cedric threatened to take over Harry with a panic attack, and Harry fought to calm themself and push them away. 

This maze was made of brick. Inside were two obstacles in the form of fully trained Aurors Harry was to sneak past successfully. Harry had to make it to the end of the maze without detection or revealing from these obstacles to gain a good final grade for this class. In five-minute intervals, Robards had called each student in alphabetical order to enter the maze. Mandy Brocklehurst, Seamus Finnegan, Astoria Greengrass, Ernie Macmillan and Natalie McDonald had all entered the maze. Now, it was Harry’s turn. 

As Harry entered the maze, they found a small alcove and immediately performed the practised charms to change their appearance. Harry first charmed hair blonde and eyes green, with strong muscles and dusting of stubble. Then, Harry layered this disguise by placing brown over green eyes, a copper beard over stubble, as though placing contact lenses and a joke shop beard over the first disguise. 

Harry then walked for a very long time. Robards had assured the class they would only meet Aurors – no dragons, no vampires, no Devil’s Snare. The trick was to be at the ready. Harry wondered how Natalie would work her permanent Dillusionment charm with no clear background to settle into, or how Seamus would go, constantly transfigured and reversing himself from a brick. 

Harry felt confident in this disguise method – it was simple, yet effective. Andromeda had even assured Harry that Tonks had aced this class doing the exact type of simple disguise. It was Muggle, almost, in its simplicity. Harry felt for a moment like James Bond.

Harry turned a corner and heard movement up ahead. A curvy blonde witch stood in the middle of the alley. “Homenum Revelio,” she said almost lazily, flicking her wand at Harry.

Harry’s brown hair, beard and eyes slipped away like water receding into a plug hole to reveal a green eyed, blonde haired man – a male twin to the superior witch. 

“Homenum Revelio,” the witch repeated, but Harry’s second disguise would not budge. She did not seem to know the correct spell to do this, and accepted this students’ appearance as his real one. Harry realised the obstacles must not be aware of who came in.

“You layered your disguise,” the bored witch said after a moment. Her tone was flat. “Very well done.”

The witch let Harry pass, and Harry sighed with relief. One more obstacle to go. One more Auror to fool.

Harry walked further and further, until their feet began to hurt. There was nothing but brick wall and stone floor for miles. Occasionally, Harry saw sparks shoot up or a flash of light as a students’ disguise was revealed. There was a distinct lack of sound, which unnerved Harry. Harry was surrounded by brick, stone and their own breathing. Harry supposed the idea was to unnerve them into dropping their disguise. 

Finally, Harry rounded a long corner in a hidden maze corridor. In a lucky move, Harry saw their next Auror, and moved back behind the safety of a wall with Seeker speed. The obstacle, thankfully, had not seen them. Harry quickly peeked around the corner to see their next obstacle: none other than the Minister himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Harry suddenly felt nervous. They gripped their wand tightly. Harry knew Kingsley well. The magician just hoped this last disguise worked. Harry performed their charms to change their appearance into the girl Harry had been at the beginning of this test: Harlow Anderson. For the second time that day, Harlow appeared in heels and purple shirt, medium length hair sweeping over a jewelled necklace that caught the light. 

Mentally preparing themself, Harry – or Harlow – walked confidently towards Kingsley. Sable heels clicked on the floor as they walked.

“Hey, have you seen a kid who tried to turn himself into a brick?” Harlow called, working their voice into the feminised register they had been practicing secretly. Harlow hoped, again, it was passable. The charms to change their voice had been faulty at best and this part was the most difficult, and the most weakest, of Harry’s idea. 

Kingsley looked over to Harlow, amused. “You lost your student? I guess that means he won your obstacle, correct?”

Harlow sighed, rolling their eyes and decided to lean against the brick wall of the maze. “I suppose he’s achieved my obstacle, yes, but I can’t find him anywhere. I think he transfigured himself somewhere in the brick wall and can’t come back out.”

Kingsley laughed. “Look, we gotta keep moving with this, Robards is on a pretty tight schedule. Why don’t you send a spell to let him know you’ve lost someone, and continue.”

“Great idea,” Harlow agreed. “No wonder you’re Minister for Magic!”

Harlow then walked right past Kingsley – the opposite of the direction they’d come through the maze. Harlow could see the exit clearly.

Kingsley sounded confused as he said, “We don’t really have the time to find the brick-kid, Harlow.”

Harry wandlessly changed their hair back to its messy state and revealed their lightning bolt scar. “But I’ve got to finish my assignment, Minister!” Harry grinned cheekily.

Kingsley, cool as ever, did not gape. He simply smiled and muttered, “I told you that you would make a great Auror.”

In the end, Harry received an O grade – an Outstanding – for teir disguise assignment. Robards was particularly impressed with Harry’s commitment to the background work in concealing seamlessly. Robards’ comments on Harry’s written work suggested he would excel at undercover work. 

Harry couldn’t be happier – and neither could Seamus, who lucked out with turning himself into a brick and slowly moving his way through the maze, to receive an A – an Acceptable grade. His marks were brought down because of the lack of flexibility in the disguise, but Seamus didn’t care. He bought a round of drinks down at the Hogs’ Head later that Sunday as Harry and their mates celebrated a job well done on their final assignment.

\---- 

Ron sat down with Harry, Neville, Seamus, Dean and his older brother George in a quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks that next stormy Sunday afternoon. 

The group of them had unofficially banded together after the war in “some bizarre attempt to reclaim masculinity in the form of getting drunk”, as Hermione had claimed. They did just that; talked shop (in George’s case, literally), chatted about old Hogwarts chums and got fairly hammered. Ron and Seamus got louder as they drank; whereas Neville, Dean and Harry usually retreated and let the louder guys steer the conversation. George usually just threw back his Gillywater shots and snorted at the occasional joke.

Harry found these afternoons relaxing, a way to blow off steam. This hadn’t changed since the unfurling of Harry’s true gender identity. The blokes never really got personal, and instead just argued about the Cannon’s chance of winning this season, or the latest ludicrous Weasley joke shop invention. After years of fights between friends, whispers around school, and always having to defeat some big bad evil, it was nice for Harry to do something so bloody ordinary.

“I hear Puddlemere United is looking for a new Chaser,” Harry began telling the group.

Ron didn’t respond as Harry thought he would. The redhead was concentrating very broodily on drinking his ale. Harry wondered what was wrong.

Seamus, however, raised an eyebrow as he also raised his glass to his lips. “What happened to Wadcock?” the Scotsman asked.

Harry shrugged. “I think that last penalty in the Scot game was the last straw for Puddlemere, or something. Just a rumour I heard in class.”

Harry missed playing Quidditch, but he was glad he hadn’t chosen it as a career. He’d seen Ginny work too long hours and be subjected to sports fanatics’ gossip for years – it wasn’t any easy profession. At least with an Auror, you got an assignment, did your work, and hopefully helped people in the process. An important job, Harry reasoned, with its dangers, but an ordinary. Like being a policeman.

Catching up with the boys had been nice. Seamus had at one point commented on Harry’s nail polish derisively, and luckily Dean had jumped in and saved the day with, “It’s a Muggle guy thing.” Harry and Dean shared some kind of look full of deeper understanding that made Harry blush and avoid any further eye contact for the rest of the night.

Ron Side-Along Disapparated with George, who was drunk to the point of weeping, back to George’s flat. It was an unspoken situation all the boys allowed George every weekend. The half-deaf man held up okay at Weasley gatherings, and was jovial enough at work, and so could only find release away from his parents.

Seamus bid them farewell and disappeared with a loud crack, too, leaving Neville, Dean and Harry. Dean was crashing at the others’ for the night. Neville was wrapped up now in flirting with his girlfriend Hannah from across the Broomsticks’ bar where she was bartending, leaving Dean and Harry to talk about Dean’s ventures into Muggle art school.

When there was no longer any acrylics, colours or classes left to talk about, Harry finally worked up the nerve to say, “Thanks for lying for me, back there with Seamus.”

Dean smiled, but seemed wary, too. Secrets silently pulsed beneath their words. “No problem. Are you….are you gay, too?”

Harry hesitated, but finally shook their head. “Not quite, no.”

Dean accepted this with a curious nod. “You know, I’ve been doing covers for this independent gay Wizarding magazine, Iphis. You should pick it up sometime – I’ll send you the next copy?”

Harry, hungry for anything in the spectrum close to transgender information, grinned. “Thanks, that’d be great. The Wizarding world is sort of….pants when it comes to gay stuff, right? Even the Muggle world is more accepting.”

The dark-skinned man sighed in disappointed agreement. “The whole Wizarding culture is stuck in some kind of awful broom closet, and yet when it comes down to it, people don’t really care. I suppose having vampires and werewolves and You-Know-Who makes queer kids a little less scary or something. Most of the Wizarding World just cares about reproducing, since we’re so tiny, so as long as couples can use fertility potions and surrogates, everyone turns the other cheek.”

Harry let Dean’s ideas sink in. He thought of all the times he’d seen wizards Polyjuice themselves into witches. He thought of Tonks and Teddy, who both could change their appearance to be more masculine or feminine in a heartbeat. This type of magical went undeterred by the Wizarding community. Then why were there so few wizards and witches who were out as queer or trans?

“Turning the other cheek isn’t good enough,” Harry muttered, frustrated. It was like anyone different in a fundamental, permanent way was shrouded in one giant Invisibility Cloak. 

Dean made a noise of agreement. Together with Neville they climbed the stairs to the boys flat, all keen to get a good night’s sleep.

\---------------

Harry awoke with a slight hangover, made better by Hannah making them all bacon, toast and bubble and squeak for breakfast. Neville made freshly squeezed orange juice from one of his orange trees. It was the breakfast of champions, and Harry felt ready to face the world again after they had their fill.

Harry went to Hermione’s apartment to ask her about the books. He knocked on the door once, twice, and had to wait five minutes before she actually answered.

Hermione opened the door and revealed herself to be thoroughly dishevelled and haggard. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her short hair was frizzy. She wore an old Cannons jumper of Ron’s and jeans.

Harry gaped. “What happened?” they asked, and immediately thought of their loved one’s safety. The Weasleys’. The Tonks’. The Lovegoods’.

Hermione ushered her guest inside with an uncharacteristic sob. “I t-think I may have ruined things with R-Ronald. He doesn’t want to speak to me!”

Harry led Hermione to the lounge where she broke down in tears. Harry flicked their wand to make Hermione’s kettle boil. This would require tea – strong tea.

Harry felt a funny jolt in their stomach. “Explain.”

Hermione ran a hand through her messy hair, as though she were bracing herself for an argument. “I know you normally take Ron’s side, Harry-”

“You’re my best friend too, Hermione,” Harry gently reminded her.

Hermione continued. “-Well, okay. Ron was listening to a Floo call I had with Madge, the leading lawyer on our defence team, and realised how far we were willing to go to defend Draco Malfoy. I think it really hit home that I’m essentially defending the enemy.”

Harry mulled over this news, a sinking feeling overcoming them. “What do you mean, how far you are willing to go?”

The intelligent witch sighed, frustrated – not with Harry, it seemed, but at something much larger and intangible. 

“The Wizarding World is not prepared for proper justice to take place,” she began slowly. “Too long have the Wizengamot and its self-appointed leaders made legal decisions without any transparency or thought to the wider magical community. This trial in the lower courts could really change things if we do it right. In five years’ time, I could properly bring my case against a Wizarding magical creature commission hearing for the rights of house elves and win a fair fight, in public, rather than plead to a bunch of rich, classist, conservative male wizards who are so old cobwebs have formed in their ears.”

Harry let this information sink in as he prepared them both a strong cup of Earl Grey, and set two porcelain teacups on the coffee table in between them. 

Hermione continued on, taking no notice of the tea, almost breathless with fervour in her voice. “We all say we want justice for the crimes the Death Eaters committed. Giving them the Kiss or sending them to Azkaban just because they have the Dark Mark isn’t justice, but that’s all the Wizarding World knows. Old families like the Weasleys’ don’t know anything different. But imagine the justice we could serve if specific crimes were charged to specific individuals. We could get real proper gaol time for the Death Eater that killed Colin Creevey, or ruined Lavender Brown’s face.”

Harry frowned. “I’m sorry if this is a dumb question,” they began. “But if you want to revolutionise the justice system, and get justice for the Battle of Hogwarts’ victims, why are you on the wrong side? Why are defending the ferret – the one who called you ‘Mudblood’ for years? You hate him as much as I do.”

Another deep sigh came from Hermione. “I wrestled with this moral dilemma for a long time. But what better way to know how to call for justice than to see how the defence works?”

The green-eyed magician wasn’t totally convinced. “But Malfoy is horrible,” they pointed out, almost weakly. “He did horrible things to lots of people, Hermione. He almost killed Katie Bell, and wanted to kill Dumbledore. He watched you get tortured.”

At the mention of this, Hermione almost unconsciously smoothed a hand down her throat, where the long scar of Bellatrix’s torture could never be fully obscured. She then shakily picked up her earl grey. A few salty tears slipped into the cup.

“That’s what Ron said, too,” Hermione whispered. “And I think that’s where I…I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

Harry drank deeply from their cup, ignoring the way his heart sank. This didn’t sound good at all.

Hermione sniffed, and more tears rolled down her face. And then, she slammed her cup down. Milky tea sloshed everywhere. “It may have been wrong to say it, but it’s the bloody truth!” she cried uncharacteristically. 

“What’s the truth?” Harry queried.

“That we all did terrible things in the war that deserve punishment. We all have victims that should demand justice from us. For example, Molly Weasley killed Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Harry couldn’t help the white hot anger that instinctively filled their insides. “But Lestrange-”

“No one deserves to die, Harry, no one. I am very glad Molly Weasley killed her. But no war was declared. Molly was not a solider, nor an Auror. She killed in cold blood and if this were the Muggle world and the Lestrange family had a damn good lawyer, Molly wouldn’t see the light of day again.”

“Are you suggesting Molly be put on trial?” Harry asked, voice raising dangerously. “She was protecting Ginny!”

“No!” Hermione almost screamed. Her teacup shattered into pieces from the emotions crackling in the air around the witch. “I am not. I am not saying that!”

Harry gaped, wide eyed. He had never heard Hermione so angry, or so distraught.

Her voice cracked as she continued. “I am saying we all did terrible things. Some worse than what Malfoy did. The only reason he stands trial is because he has the Dark Mark and we do not.”

Hermione took Harry’s hands into her own. “H-Harry, you fought V-Voldemort not because of the prophecy, but because you knew his hatred had to be stopped. Wiping out an entire race of the Wizarding World is unacceptable. With Voldemort gone for good, we need to rebuild a world where there is justice and peace and unity. It might sound like a load of – well, like a load of crap – because in order to be more than Voldemort, in order to stop a society where there is so much internal conflict and classist power, we must have fairness and transparency. For all.”

Harry let go of Hermione’s hands. “I’m sorry, Hermione, but this is hard to take.”

Hermione sobbed quietly, her voice cracking. “I know. But I fought for what’s right and I know that fight is not over yet. If we continue to be prejudiced against people like Malfoy, we’ll never stand a chance. Voldemort only followed in Grindelwald’s steps because nothing had changed.”

“The Malfoys’ would never stop being prejudiced against people like the Weasleys’,” Harry pointed out bitterly.

Hermione nodded in faint agreement. “Someone has got to make the first move,” she replied shakily.

Harry didn’t know if they agreed with the bright witch. Hermione was almost always right, though, and she did actually know the law…

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Hermione into the uncomfortable silence that had grown between them. “Maybe Ron was right to dump me.”

“So you two are – are really over?”

“I’m not sure. He’s not speaking to me right now.”

Harry sighed. “I think I get where you are coming from, Hermione. I never got a fair trial about the Dementors in my fifth year thanks to the Wizengamot. Hell, Sirius got sent to Azkaban without anyone bothering to see what spell he’d last cast from his wand, or checking the memories of the Muggles around him because everyone on that bloody court assumed he was guilty. I guess it’s just hard to place Draco Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange on the same moral level as Mrs Weasley.”

“Mrs Weasley is nothing like them,” Hermione refuted. “But we cannot cast stones without first admitting our own sins.” 

Harry felt a little sick and dizzy. Their own sins outnumbered Malfoys, for sure.

“I guess everything just can’t be split into good or bad,” Harry agreed quietly. 

They cast an evanesco spell on Hermione’s shattered mess of tea and gave Hermione’s hand a reassuring squeeze, just like she had done so many times for them.

“I may have been the Chosen One, but you’re the one whose going to really defeat Voldemort,” they finally said.

Harry stood up. “I’ll talk to Ron. As much as I don’t want to watch you guys snog, you are meant to be together.”

Hermione blew her nose loudly into a tissue. “Thank you, Harry.”

Before Harry left, Hermione implored him to come to the trial to see what she had meant. Harry said they’d try, and wasn’t sure if they really would.

\------------

Harry found Ron at the Burrow as dusk was settling in and light snow was blanketing the earth. Ron was de-gnoming the garden furiously. A blotchy-face gnome sailed right past Harry’s head with a shriek as the magician walked up to their best friend carefully.

“Hey, mate,” Harry called out.

Ron looked up. “Oh, hey, Harry.” He wrenched another gnome out, who went failing in a flash of grass and dirt.

“I heard you and Hermione aren’t speaking.”

“Did you talk to her?” Ron demanded. His ears went red, a clear warning sign.

“Yeah,” said Harry carefully. “I get why you’re mad.”

Ron nodded furiously. “She’s got it in her head that she’s going to revolutionise the Wizarding world. That’s just not how it’s done. Those Death Eater’s deserve the Kiss and much worse, I reckon.”

“I see both sides, Ron. And I don’t want to see you two break up.”

Ron scowled. “Of course you agree with her. You sure you don’t want us to break up? You two have been spending an awful lot of time together.”

Harry felt that familiar feeling of hot and cold, sick and shaky. “Merlin, Ron, not this again. The locket lied. Hermione bloody loves you. We’ve been spending a lot of time together because Hermione has been helping me with something.”

Ron raised his eyebrows despite feeling jaded by Harry. “Your Concealment assignment? You cheated?”

“No,” Harry sighed. “It’s something else.”

Harry ruffled their hair before steeling themselves. They owed Hermione something – it might as well be getting Ron to forgive her. Maybe it was time Ron knew, too.

“Can we go get a drink at my place? I think I should tell you what’s been going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you think Ron will react?
> 
> Credit for the ideas basing the legal system in this fic go to my discussions with my friend J, the HP fanfiction reddit community and a ton of great essays which you can find listed here at the reddit thread. TD;LR: Canon only shows the Wizengamot, so it’s free play when it comes to what I decide to with the lower courts including methods of prosecution, testifying and evidence.


	10. Unforgivables

The second youngest Weasley had denied drinking at Harry’s, preferring having this out on his own terms. Ron led Harry up to his bedroom. George was singing drunkenly with the ghoul in the attic, the awful noise warbling down the haphazard Burrow staircase. 

“Is he okay?” Harry asked, nodding towards the attic.

Ron sighed. “Yeah, he’ll fall asleep in an hour or two.”

Harry let the matter go, seeing it would only upset Ron more. The magician hoped to keep Ron calmed as Harry explained their transition.

They sat down at either ends of Ron’s Chudley-adorned bed. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Hermione?”

“It’s been me, really. Hermione’s helping me change into someone I want to be. Someone I am. Blimey, I, ah –“ Harry ruffled their hair with their hand anxiously. “I’m pants at explaining this.”

And so Harry just blurted out, “I’m a woman,” and explained the idea of being transgender the best they could.

It was if time froze. Harry felt hot around the face and sick in the stomach. Ron went through shades of red to purple in lightning speed. He whispered something, and Harry had to ask Ron again what he’d said because they hadn’t heard in their panic.

Ron wasn’t looking at Harry. 

“Hermione knew?” he whispered, sounding betrayed. 

Ron looked up at Harry to see tears shining in their eyes as they nodded miserably in confirmation. 

Ron’s face drained of colour. “After everything we’ve been through, why didn’t you tell me?” he thundered. “You’d thinking wanting a – a bloody sex change would have come up at some point in the last eight years!”

“It….it was so hard…” Harry began to choke out. More than ever in this moment, Harry wished for their dad’s invisibility cloak to disappear away in.

Ron held up a hand to quieten Harry.

“Harry, mate,” he said exasperatedly. “I have seen you almost die, like, a zillion times. I wouldn’t care if you were purple with pink spots, as long as you're my best mate and you’re still alive. And yeah, don’t act so surprised, walking around in that bloody forest with Dumbledore’s lighter taught me a thing or two about losing my cool. What I’m pissed about is that once again, I’m the last to know.”

This sunk in to Harry as they breathed slowly. Although there was guilt and shame bubbling in the pit of their stomach, an overwhelming sense of relief pushed through.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry apologised, but couldn’t hide the tearful smile tugging at the corners of their lips. “It’s all new for me too. I didn’t know who I was until Hermione helped me see.”

Ron seemed to nod for a very long time. Finally, he questioned, “Does this mean you like guys?”  
“I- I don’t know. I don’t think so. Who I am and who I want to bed are two separate things, though…this is about my g-gender.”

They met each other’s gaze. Ron looked as emotionally weary and Harry felt.

“At least we’re not eating turnips anymore,” Harry said weakly.

The tension in the room broke. Above them, George broke out into a hearty rendition of ‘Weasley is Our King’. 

“Bloody hell, I need a beer,” the red-headed Weasley muttered as he pulled his best friend into a bear hug.

The two best friends sat out on the Weasley lawn, drinking a cold one each. Ron had spent the afternoon and evening asking a lot of questions – some Harry wasn’t ready to answer, and some the answer was firm. Eventually, the conversation turned to the reason Harry had come to the Burrow in the first place: Hermione Granger.

Dusk dusted across the skyline, embracing the trees that lined the Weasley property in shadow. 

“I get why you’re mad at Hermione,” Harry said after a long sip of Butterbeer. “I don’t like Malfoy either.”

“Little ferret,” Ron muttered, but didn’t offer any more conversation for a while. He sighed eventually and explained his position.

“I went into my relationship with Hermione knowing she was always going to be smarter than me, more ambitious than me, even more successful than me. I mean, I dunno if I even want to be an Auror for the rest of my life. But that’s what I love about her. She makes me think, y’know? And she makes me happy…even when she drives me barmy. But the Malfoys did a lot of awful shite to her….I just don’t get how she can put that aside.”

“Hermione told me that’s what lawyers have to do. They have to put their feelings aside.”

“But how can she even help on a case when Malfoy watched her being tortured? Isn’t that…I don’t know…double jeopardy or some law technical term?”

Harry frowned. ‘Double jeopardy’ didn’t sound right, but agreed with what Ron had said. 

"I don't think it would work in the Muggle world," the green-eyed magician concurred. "The Wizarding world is pretty small, though. I doubt there isn't anyone involved in the trial who doesn't have a bias for or against old Voldemort's followers."

Ron predictably winced at You-Know-Who's name. Harry relished saying it these days now that it no longer triggered a spell.

The redheaded added soberly after a moment, "She said in the Muggle world, Mum might be on trial coz of Lestrange. Y'reckon that's true?"

"I dunno," Harry answered truthfully. "She doesn't mean your mum is a bad person. Just pointing out that...Wizarding law is weird. And maybe not best practice."

Ron looked square in his best mate's eyes. "You reckon she's taking advantage of that fact?"

Harry nodded infinitesimally, his eyes not leaving Ron's. "Yeah, I do."

Ron laughed, and took a long drink. "Remember never to get on her bad side," he said. 

"Does this mean you'll patch things up?" Harry inquired after a moment.

“Yeah, ‘spose.”

“Maybe you should go talk to her,” Harry nudged. “She was crying into a cup of tea while wearing your Cannons t-shirt when I saw her earlier.”

Ron’s eyes widened. His freckly face looked stark and surprised in the sunset. “Blimey! I better go, then.”

The two went back inside the house, with Ron telling his mum he’d be staying late at Hermione’s that night. Mrs Weasley offered Harry a seat at dinner, which would be onion soup and crusty bread. At the thought of warm food after a long day, Harry couldn’t refuse.

~

Harry met Hermione and Ron at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour late in the afternoon the following weekend. The two had patched things up. Hermione was displaying uncharacteristic public affection with Ron, such as kissing him before she went to grab her ice cream cone and playing with his fingers as they rested on the table. Ron looked a little flushed with pleasure.

“I see the golden couple are back on track,” Harry teased. The young magician had applied a minor vocal tone-changing spell that morning, taking their voice only half an octave up. It made a satisfying difference to Harry – even if it wasn’t too noticeable. Ron, lovably oblivious as ever, hadn’t remarked on it, although Hermione had given Harry a knowing smile.

“Yeah….” Ron replied absent-mindedly, watching his girlfriend walk to the ice cream counter. The shorthaired witch came back with their orders: almond crunch for Hermione, orange chocolate for Ron and treacle surprise for Harry. They indulged in their icy treats for a while before conversation resumed.

Hermione cast a quick muffliato spell around them. She dug around her back as she spoke.

“Harry, I’ve been doing some research about queer magical figures in the Wizarding World lately, and digging around about laws pertaining to homosexuality and transgender rights.” With a neat flick of her wand, Hermione produced a long roll of parchment from her handbag – almost three feet of it.

“Some research?” Harry gaped. Ron snorted into his orange ice cream.

Hermione dismissed this familiar reaction to her academic and industrious methods. “I’ve been so busy with the Death Eater case that I haven’t been able to make notes on more than three or so figures, so the rest of this is a reference list of which books you can find at the Diagon Alley public library on the matter.” The bushy-haired witch bit her lip. “I hope it will suffice,” she added after a moment.

Harry grinned. “This is brilliant, Hermione! Thank you!”

Harry surveyed the parchment briefly: names like Morgan le Fay stirred in their memory. The mere idea of Harry not being the first transmagician filled him with more happiness than treacle-flavoured ice cream could provide. It meant there was history, and connection, to trans people in the Wizarding world. It meant inspiration, and power, and hope.

Smiling, the messy haired magician magically shrunk and stowed the parchment away in their skinny jeans pocket. Harry quickly resumed eating their ice cream, quickly licking a trickle of treacle deliciousness as it melted its way past Harry’s mauve nail polished fingers.

The trio bid farewell to one another after a good hour of catching up. It felt warm and safe to Harry, being with just themself and their best friends. With the Hogwarts Harry had known destroyed and reconstructed since the war, their friends truly were home in their heart.

Before they left, Hermione touched Harry’s arm briefly to remind them that Draco Malfoy had requested a meeting with Harry. Harry was at their leisure to refuse – especially so since Harry was not going to be testifying against the blonde pureblood. Katie Bell, the first years Malfoy had polyjuiced in their sixth year and Goyle, who had been dealt a shorter sentence in exchange for his testimony, would be damning Malfoy to rot in Wizarding gaol.

What they would possibly talk about, and whatever would come of the meeting, Harry was unsure. Surely Malfoy did not feel he could gloat from inside a gaol cell? 

Harry, however, felt as though he owed Malfoy’s mother Narcissa a little latitude. Sadly – or perhaps thankfully – Narcissa had not made contact with her sister Andromeda Tonks since her husband and daughter’s death, only to send her condolences on cold, starch embossed paper. The magician shuddered to think of family lunches and Christmas cards shared with the Malfoys. As far as Andromeda was concerned, her sister was tolerated but ultimately unwelcome. And so if latitude for helping Harry came in the form of talking to Narcissa’s son, Harry could make peace with that. 

Feeling emboldened by the octave change, the peace that Hermione and Ron had found, and the transmagician history sitting in Harry’s pocket, Harry apparated to the Ministry, seeking a meeting with the criminal Draco Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to those who have had some interested (and heated!) discussions with me about this fic. I hope you are enjoying where it is heading; this is the third last chapter. I hope this fic spurns some writers to write their own trans!character Harry Potter fics, coz we definitely need those around! I am really touched and encouraged by those readers who are saying this fic is important in bringing awareness and visibility to transgender issues in the fandom. 
> 
> I adore reviews and con crit :)


	11. Interviews

The magician didn't know what they were expecting by going to meet with Draco Malfoy. An apology, perhaps? Some kind of resolution? In hindsight, Harry probably shouldn't have gone at all. Harry knew Hermione would have advised Harry not to go. Harry had to testify against Malfoy. It probably violated some law thing. Not that anyone in the Wizarding World kept tabs on that sort of thing.

And so, Harry observed their schoolyard nemesis with caution. The wizarding London gaol Draco Malfoy was being kept in during his trial was minimalistic and quiet. Light beige walls surrounded them both. Malfoy's hands and feet were bound to the table by magically conjured ropes. His trademark white blond hair was as sleek as ever. Meeting Malfoy's grey gaze, Harry felt the unmistakable urge to punch him in the face.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted with a curt nod.

"Malfoy," Harry ground out. So much for being civil. Harry couldn't help the angry feelings that rose inside of them. The guard that stood sentry over them shifted slightly behind Harry.

"What did you want to see me for?" Harry asked.

Malfoy had the nerve to take his time, taking in Harry's appearance with interest.

"Certainly not to catch up with old friends," he drawled. "I wanted to be assured your testimonial would not paint me in an unfavorable light."

"I don't owe you anything," Harry began unbelievingly.

"You look different," Malfoy interjected, ignoring Harry's reply.

Harry felt their face flush. They withdrew their navy painted fingernails under their palms out of sight, as a turtle would retreat into its shell. The magician shifted uncomfortably.

"War changes people," Harry replied shortly.

Malfoy cocked his head to the side before letting bout a soft, calculated laugh.

"So darling Harry Potter is a faggot. You know, many wizards such as yourself work in the upper echelons of the ministry. To protect their own and such. I was always the object of their wandering eyes at my father's dinner parties once I hit sixteen. I'm sure if you give a postitive testimony at my trial, my father could introduce you to….your kind."

Malfoy was way off base, not to mention insulting.

"My sexuality isn't a bargaining chip," Harry snapped, and rose from their chair.

Draco tried to stand, and embarrassingly stumbled as his restraints kept him bound to the table.

"What happens when I leak your dirty little secret to the papers, Potter?"

Harry froze as they began to cross the visiting room threshold. Slowly, they turned.

"I guess you won't know, since you'll be in prison."

With that, Harry left. Harry wouldn't seen Malfoy again until they were in the witness stand.

However, Malfoy's threat followed Harry outside of the prison. Every day, Harry was worried they would be outed. The magician thought back to what Hermione had said long ago about Dumbledore's sexual orientation, namely that it was a footnote in Rita Skeeter's biography that many wizards refused to see as an unsavory topic of conversation. And yet, gay and gender diverse (and even a few non binary individuals) kept popping up all throughout wizarding history. Ginny's lover was a celebrated out Quidditch player. And hadn't Harry had an overwhelmingly positive reaction to their transition from their closest family: namely, friends Ron and Hermione? Really…what was Harry afraid of? In their heart, they knew. It wasn't the hounding of the wizarding press, and he couldn't handle being whispered at. Rejection from Mr and Mrs Weasley frightened the living daylights out of them. They were like their true adoptive family, far surpassing the Dursley's. What if they shunned Harry?

Harry felt time ticking away. They itched to be their true self and to no longer hide. It had taken so long to reach this point…and now all Harry wanted to do was run to the finish line.

Harry thought about Malfoy's threats. They felt a sense of déjà vu. How many times in school had Harry been with their back against the wall? What had they and their friends done those times?

Harry knew exactly who to call. He walked to this nearest public floor network, and asked to be connected to The Daily Prophet.

..................................

The three of them were sitting in a back booth of Madam Rosmerta's, away from prying eyes. Hermione had come rushing from the second day of Malfoy's court case just to be there in moral support. Harry sat, wondering if for a moment they had gone truly bonkers, because Harry had granted Rita Skeeter a full access, exclusive interview with them about a 'new change in Harry's life.' That had been a week ago, and now here the three of them were, pints of Firewhiskey in hand for liquid courage. The small talk had been atrociously uncomfortable, but the moment of truth was now.

Rita Skeeter poised her poisonous pen above her levitating parchment as she attacked Harry with her preamble to the interview.

"Today we are opening up a Pandora's jar, so to speak – a scandalous secret you've hid from the Wizarding World for many years."

Harry looked to Hermione for help. She gave Harry a reassuring smile and motioned with her hands for Harry to open up.

The sable-haired magician looked back at Rita. The war hadn't done wonders for her looks, aging her greatly, yet she still dressed in lavish ivy green robes and fascinator. Her rouged lips split into that fake coy smile. "Harry?" she prodded.

"Yes," replied Harry slowly, gathering themself. "T-today I'm telling the world that I am changing my gender from male and female. I'm transgender."

Skeeter's quill scribbled at the speed of light, propelled by this scandalous, outrageous news. The woman herself tried to not look shocked.

"Does this mean you have been secretly living as a female while dressing in man's clothes?"

"No, no! Once the war ended, I finally had space to realise I didn't feel male."

"Not to be crass, Harry, but does this mean your genitalia…?"

Harry grit their teeth. They had to remember that most people had no idea what it meant to be transgender, and that a lot of these ignorant questions would need to be answered gracefully. "My genitalia is what I was born with," they ground out. "But this change is not so much about my sex as it is my gender. They are two separate things."

Rita Skeeter looked thoroughly confused by this, but carried on. "Oh! Very well then."

Rita inched closer to Harry. The quick notes quill wrote, "The stunning journalist and this confused, young hero moved closer as the conversation grew more personal."

Beside Rita Skeeter, Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry had to stifle a laugh.

"Did the weight of being The Boy Who Lived cause this….transition?"

"What? No! No."

"So I suppose in future we will call you The Girl Who Lived?" Rita's eyes flashed in delight. "A ha!" she said in an aside to the magical quill. "Make a note of 'The Girl Who Lived' as a potential headline…"

Skeeter then began formulating another question. "Is this why Ginny Weasley broke up with you? She couldn't handle you being a girl?"

"I needed time by myself to figure out what I wanted," Harry answered carefully. "Ginny is accepting of who I really am." They didn't want Ginny's sexual orientation to get dragged into this.

Rita Skeeter had the nerve to pat Harry on the knee reassuringly.

"Now Harry, dear, how do you think your friends and admirers will react to this news?"

Harry laughed, an almost hysterical edge to their voice. The thought of explaining the complexities of transgenderism to Hagrid seemed comical.

"Some of them might find to strange, or too hard to understand," Harry admitted. "But as long as they understand that the type of person I am hasn't changed – I'm still Harry – just a different gender, with a different name."

Rita Skeeter wouldn't let that last comment go. Harry's eyes widened as it slipped out.

"A different name?"

Harry felt themselves go red in the face. They hadn't even told Hermione about the name they had thought for themselves. Dare they?

They had faced Lord Voldemort, Acromantula, giants, Death Eaters and Dudley's beatings. They could handle this, surely?

"My new name is H-Harlow. Harlow Potter. And you can use she or her to describe me."

Rita's grin widened. She waved in hand in the air as she replied. "Meet Harlow Potter, The Girl Who Lived.' It has a ring to it."

"Thank you for your time today, Harlow," Rita said, signaling the end of the interview.

And in that moment, Harry – Harlow – felt the weight of the world leave her shoulders, a feeling she hadn't felt in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for sticking with this story! My apologies for the long time between drinks (...or chapters). What do you think of the name? Please review!


	12. Transformations

Harlow Potter waited nervously for Neville Longbottom to finish reading the proof copy of Rita Skeeter’s article that the witch had sent over the previous night. A week had gone by since Harlow’s interview – and it was set to be published in one days’ time for the whole wide Wizarding World to gawk at and gossip over. Harlow had decided to show Neville the interview first, a gesture of gratefulness for the way the clumsy wizard had not questioned or brought attention to any of Harry’s physical changes. He had only ever intervened with a hot mug of tea or a biscuit when he had heard Harlow crying, as much as Harlow had tried to muffle the sound. 

Neville had been kind enough to wait for Harlow to come out, never once casting askance at Harlow’s lengthening hair, or painted nails, or softening muscles. 

Neville put down the proof copy of The Daily Prophet – the cover page emblazoned with the headline ‘Meet Harlow Potter – The Girl Who Lived’ on their coffee table. Neville gulped nervously as he meet Harlow’s worried gaze.

“…This explains a LOT,” Neville finally blurted out. Harlow couldn’t help but laugh nervously in reply.

“I suppose it does.”

“So – so you aren’t gay, then?”

Sexuality became tricky when your gender changed. Harry had slept with Ginny and Luna, and had crushed on Cho Chang all those years ago. If Harlow was now a girl, did that make her a lesbian too? Harry wasn’t ready to answer those questions just yet – and so gave the simple answer of ‘no’ to Neville.

“I like girls,” Harlow said slowly. “That hasn’t changed. The only thing that has changed is me, on the outside, to the public.”

Neville nodded his head quite a few times, deep in thought. Finally he mumbled, “I don’t know how Hannah’s going to feel about me living with a girl that’s not her…”

Harlow grinned. “Maybe she could move in with us.”  
Neville’s eyes widened. “Oh, um, maybe….oh goodness…”

A short rapping on their door alerted them both to a visitor. Harlow opened the door to see Luna Lovegood standing, as oddly as ever, before her.

Luna breezed in and gave Neville a hug, made herself at home and began to brew some tea with a quick flick of her wand. 

She spotted the newspaper proof and smiled. “I love the name you chose, ‘Harlow’. I’m curious about the meaning – I consulted my scrying stones and they told me it means ‘army’, or ‘hill’.

The green-eyed witch blushed. “It wasn’t chosen for the meaning so much as it sounded close to ‘Harry’…but wasn’t something quite so cliché as ‘Harriet’,” she explained.

Luna nodded thoughtfully in reply as she began pouring three cups of tea for them all. “It is a lovely name indeed. I shall have to create a new birth chart for you, now you have a new name. I believe your waxing moon in the fifth house might spell for happiness and success…”

Here Luna trailed off into mutterings about astrology that neither Harlow nor Neville had any hope of following. They drank their tea, and discussed transgenderism, and pondered how the Wizarding World would react. Luna advised Harlow to ignore any negativity, as someone would always find difference to be a bad thing, no matter how positive its nature may be.

Harlow smiled a true smile over the lip of her teacup. She drank deeply in the warmth that the acceptance of her friends gave her. She would need to remember that support: for her next stop today was to visit the Burrow, to tell Mr and Mr Weasley – and then to Hagrid’s hut, to discuss her transition with the half-giant gamekeeper. 

The most important people in her life would be told before the Howlers and letters came rushing in the owl post after Skeeter’s article would hit newsstands tomorrow morning. Harlow needed to keep the support in her heart in mind in case her worse fears about the elder family in her life came true.

All too soon, the tea was finished, and Luna ordered Harlow to go change. Luna was here to bring over her makeup for Harlow to borrow, as the black-haired witch had yet to buy any cosmetic products of her own. Once Harlow nervously finishing dressing and applying her make up, Luna, Neville and she parted ways. At five o’clock in the evening, Harlow met Hermione, Ron and Ginny outside the Burrow. Ron stared wide-eyed at Harlow – it was the first time the gangly redhead has seen Harlow so transformed and feminine – but a nudge from Hermione kept him from putting his foot in his mouth. Harlow clutched The Daily Prophet proof. She was sure she was sweating. She stood almost frozen at the door to the Burrow, unable to move from sheer terror. Garden gnomes were squabbling under the group’s feet, until finally, Ginny pushed Harlow through the door with a not so gentle prod.

Mrs Weasley was in the middle of wiping down the dining table. She saw Harlow’s alternate appearance, and the grave faces of the young people before her, and frowned. “Arthur…?” she called hesitantly.

The Weasley patriarch bustled in, his appearance a little dusty as he had obviously been tinkering with some Muggle product in his shed. 

“What is going…” he began to say, until Harlow thrust forward the article. Her hands were shaking as Mr Weasley took the paper from Harlow’s white hands and Mr and Mrs Weasley slowly began to read.

It seemed to take an age. Mrs Weasley’s lips pursed at several moments, and Mr Weasley gaped. Finally, the two put the paper down on the table. The only sound in the entire kitchen was the scratching and scrubbing from a pile dishes being washed by an enchanted dish brush over the kitchen sink. The noise would have been comical in the silence if it weren’t such a defining moment. 

“This is what you want?” Mrs Weasley said in a quiet, tremulous voice after a moment.

Harlow nodded tearfully. “This is who I am.”

And physically, in front of them, there was no denying it. Harlow had purposefully worn the styling Luna and she had come up with so many weeks earlier. With a few spells and flicks of her holly wand, Harlow had lengthened her jet black hair so it sat on her shoulders, a fringe covering her famous lightning bolt scar. She wore a plain olive green button down top, dark wash jeans and black canvas shoes. Her nails wore a dark jade colour, and she wore a simple coat of black mascara. It was clear that Harry Potter, the boy they’d grown to love as son, was no longer. 

“Oh, my dear child!” cried Mrs Weasley, and pulled Harlow tight in for a hug. “You poor thing, always so alone…!”

Ginny started crying behind them, and had to leave the room. Harlow thought it was probably very confronting to see her parents accept such a socially daunting difference. It held hope for her, too, and that must have been difficult to witness.

Hermione went after Ginny as Mrs Weasley released Harlow from her embrace. Mr Weasley gave Harlow a tight but kind smile. They spoke for a few more minutes, asking Harlow about the ins and outs of being transgender. Ginny and Hermione returned. Ginny was shaking, but looked determined.

“Harlow and I broke up because I cheated on them with a woman,” she said, looking dead straight at her parents. “I’m a lesbian.”

Mrs Weasley burst into tears, with Mr Weasley holding her, looking shell-shocked.

“Give us one piece of earth shattering news one day at a time, Ginny!” yelled Ron before guffawing nervously, obviously running over the news his sister was a lesbian over in his mind.

“M-mum?” Ginny trembled. “What do you think?”

Mrs Weasley drew her only daughter into her embrace, just as she did Harlow.  
“We’ve wondered for a long time, dear,” she said in a watery voice.

“How?” Ginny asked, surprised. “I didn’t even know.”

An exhausted sigh precluded the Weasley matriarch’s response. “A mother just knows these things, sometimes.”

“And you don’t care? You aren’t going to throw me out? Daddy?” Ginny fearfully asked her parents, looking from one to the other.

Mr and Mrs Weasley had aged significantly during the war. Thinner, greyer, under eye circles that spoke of little sleep. The couple met each others’ gaze before turning back to their daughter.

“We care, dear. It’s not exactly normal, all of this, at least in the Wizarding World. And I worry if you and Harry might not have chosen a different path, it would not be so hard for you. It might take some time to get….used to all of this change,” Mrs Weasley tried to explain. Her words were not perfect, but she was not disowning them, so both Harlow and Ginny tried not to flinch.

“But we aren’t going to lose anymore children,” Mr Weasley interjected tiredly. 

He then hugged Ginny very close. “We don’t want to lose any of you ever again,” he whispered. Fred Weasley had become the ghoul that haunted the Weasleys without ever needing a ghostly form.

“You won’t,” Harlow said firmly, squeezing Ginny’s hand.

*

The golden trio and Ginny Weasley sat haphazardly along the outdoor setting in front of the Burrow. They were drinking in the dusky scenery as they drunk Firewhisky, the burning taste as hot as the setting sun. Ginny occasionally hiccupped, her face pale. She still looked a quite as shell shocked at her coming out as her parents had.

Harlow slid an arm around her and squeezed gently. She was very proud of her ex-girlfriend. Coming out to the Weasley parents hadn’t been perfect, but it was okay, and they were safe. Harlow felt a little more reassured about telling Hagrid – he, of course, was always grumbling about how people should respect man-eating spiders. What was a little gender change compared to Acromantula or Giants or Blast-Ended Skrewts? 

Ron took a long, thoughtful gulp of his drink beside Harry. He burped loudly, to which Hermione and Ginny rolled her eyes and Harry laughed,

“Who am I going to talk about Quidditch with now?” Ron complained. 

“My gender has changed, Ron, I haven’t had a brain transplant,” Harlow laughed, almost choking on a swig of Firewhisky. “I still love Quidditch, and I still want to be an Auror. I’m still the same person – just more, well, me.”

Hermione began to smile beside them, but instead let out a small scream, as glowing, gleaming Patronus in the form of a python slithered up to the group. 

“Fucking patronus,” Ron swore. Hermione shushed him as the messag began to transmit from the grey, swirling corporeal form. 

“The jury has reached a verdict. It will be read out in ten. Hurry,” hissed Madge Lune’s low voice from her Patronus.

Hermione almost threw her Firewhisky at her boyfriend in panic. “Oh Merlin, I’ve got to go! I need my notes! And I need to brush my teeth! Oh goodness, ten minutes!”

Harlow and Ron put their drinks down as tried to help Hermione, frazzled as she was. “Accio subsection 33 notes!” Ron called with a quick flick of his wand. 

Hermione pinked, pleased something she’d rambled about had actually stayed in Ron’s mind. Harlow wandlessly charmed some mouthwash out of their alcohol as Hermione straightened her short, bushy hair back into a neat bun and then cleaned out her mouth.

“Good luck!” the two best friends called as Hermione Disapparated with a smart crack and nervous smile.

“You’re not going to go?” Ron asked his best mate.

“Nah,” decided Harlow. “Malfoy would probably hex me if The Girl Who Lived stole his limelight.”

“Slimy git,” concluded Ron, draining the last of his drink.

Harlow rolled their eyes. “Maybe not so much, Ron. The world we fought for – the one you and Hermione’s sprog is going to grow up in –“ (here Ron blushed pleasurably at the thought of he and Hermione having children one day, and Ginny laughed in response) - “is going to be one where pasts are forgiven or forgotten or don’t matter.”

“You sound like Hermione,” noted Ginny gleefully.

“Girls,” groaned Ron, clearly feeling outnumbered.

Girls. Ron’s words echoed in Harlow’s mind. It was such a little word, so soft, yet meant so much. 

The three of them sat drinking the afternoon away, lazily watching as the setting sun revealed brilliant shades of orange and lilac and dusty pink. Harlow thought of Draco Malfoy’s impending fate, and of Hermione’s tenacity and intelligence, and how proud of Hermione she was. Being compared to Hermione – grouped in with girls – was the best compliment Harlow had ever received.

Harlow raised a glass to the bright tangerine sunset, and toasted a final, silent farewell to Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading Harry's journey to Harlow as much as I did writing it. So long, and thanks for all the fish.


End file.
